The characters and events portrayed in this book arefictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, iscoincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2013 by Feral Dream LLC

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by anymeans, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,or otherwise, without express written permission of thepublisher.

Published by Skyscape, New York.

www.apub.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Dataavailable upon request.

ISBN-13: 9781477817285ISBN-10: 147781728X

Text design by Patrice Sheridan and Susan Gerber

First edition

Dedicated to the early readers of Angelfall. Thanks forfalling first.

CONTENTS

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75ACKNOWLEDGMENTSABOUT THE AUTHOR

EVERYONE THINKS I’m dead.I lie with my head on my mother’s lap in the open bed

of a large truck. The dawn light etches the grief lines onmy mom’s face while the rumble of the engines vibratesthrough my limp body. We’re part of the Resistancecaravan. Half a dozen military trucks, vans, and SUVsweave through dead cars away from San Francisco. On thehorizon behind us, the angels’ aerie still smolders inflames after the Resistance strike.

Newspapers cover shop windows along the road,making a corridor of reminders of the Great Attack. I don’tneed to read the papers to know what they say. Everyonewas plastered to the news during the early days whenreporters were still reporting.

PARIS IN FLAMES, NEW YORK FLOODED,MOSCOW DESTROYED

WHO SHOT GABRIEL, THE MESSENGER OF GOD?

ANGELS TOO AGILE FOR MISSILES

NATIONAL LEADERS SCATTERED AND LOST

THE END OF DAYS

We drive by three bald people wrapped in graysheets. They’re taping up the stained and crumpled fliersof one of the apocalypse cults. Between the street gangs,the cults, and the Resistance, I wonder how long it will bebefore everyone is part of one group or another. Even theend of the world can’t keep us from wanting to belong, Iguess.

The cult members pause on the sidewalk to watch uspass in our crowded truck.

As a family, we must look tiny—just a scared mom, adark-haired teenager, and a seven-year-old girl sitting in atruck bed full of armed men. At any other time, we wouldhave been sheep in the company of wolves. But now, wehave what people might call “presence.”

Some of the men in our caravan wear camouflage andhold rifles. Some man machine guns still aimed at the sky.Some are fresh off the streets with homemade gang tattoos

made of self-inflicted burns that mark their kills.Yet these men huddle away from us to keep a safe

distance.My mom continues to rock back and forth as she has

for the last hour since we left the exploding aerie, chantingin her own version of speaking in tongues. Her voice risesand falls as if she’s having a fierce argument with God. Ormaybe the devil.

A tear drops off her chin and lands on my forehead,and I know her heart is breaking. It’s breaking for me, herseventeen-year-old daughter, whose job was to look outfor the family.

As far as she knows, I’m just a lifeless body broughtto her by the devil. She’ll probably never be able to blotout the image of me lying limp in Raffe’s arms with hisdemon wings backlit by flames.

I wonder what she’d think if someone told her thatRaffe was actually an angel who’s been tricked intohaving demon wings. Would that be any stranger thanbeing told that I’m not actually dead but just stung into aweird paralysis by a scorpion-angel monster? She’dprobably think that person was as crazy as she is.

My baby sister sits at my feet seemingly frozen. Hereyes stare blankly and her back is perfectly straightdespite the weaving of the truck. It’s as if Paige has shutherself off.

The tough men in the truck keep stealing glances at

her like little boys peeking over their blankets. She lookslike a bruised, stitched-up doll from a nightmare. I hate tothink about what might have happened to her to make herlike this. A part of me wishes I knew more but a part of meis glad I don’t.

I take a big breath. I’ll have to get up sooner or later.I don’t have a choice but to face the world. I’m fullythawed now. I doubt if I could fight or anything, but as faras I can tell, I should be able to move.

I sit up.I guess if I’d really thought things through, I would

have been prepared for the screams.Chief among the screamers is my mother. Her

muscles stiffen in sheer terror, her eyes impossibly wide.“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s all right.” My words are

slurred, but I’m grateful I don’t sound like a zombie.It would be funny except for a sobering thought that

pops into my head: We now live in a world wheresomeone like me could be killed for being a freak.

I put my hands out in a calming gesture. I saysomething to try to reassure them, but it gets lost in thescreams. Panic in a small area like a truck bed iscontagious, apparently.

The other refugees crush against each other as theypress toward the rear of the truck. Some of them lookprepared to jump out of the moving vehicle.

A soldier with greasy pimples aims his rifle at me,

gripping it like he’s about to make his first, horrifying kill.I totally underestimated the level of primal fear

swirling around us. They’ve lost everything: theirfamilies, their security, their God.

And now, a reanimated corpse is reaching for them.“I am okay,” I say slowly with as much clarity as I

can. I hold the soldier’s gaze, intent on convincing himthere’s nothing supernatural going on. “I’m alive.”

There’s a moment when I’m not sure if they’ll relaxor toss me out of the truck with a blaze of gunfire. I stillhave Raffe’s sword strapped to my back, mostly hiddenunder my jacket. That gives me some comfort, even thoughit obviously can’t stop bullets.

“Come on.” I keep my voice gentle and mymovements very slow. “I was just knocked out. That’sall.”

“You were dead,” says the pale soldier, who doesn’tlook a day older than me.

Someone bangs on the truck’s roof.We all jump, and I’m lucky the soldier doesn’t

accidentally pull his trigger.The rear window slides open and Dee’s head sticks

through. He’d look stern except that it’s hard to take himtoo seriously with his red hair and little-boy freckles.“Hey! Back off from the dead girl. She’s Resistanceproperty.”

“Yeah,” says his twin brother Dum from inside the

cab. “We need her for autopsies and stuff. You think girlskilled by demon princes are easy to find?” As usual, Ican’t tell the twins apart, so I randomly assign Dee for oneand Dum for the other.

“No killing the dead girl,” says Dee. “I’m talking toyou, Soldier.” He points to the guy with the rifle andglares at him. You’d think that looking like a set of strung-out Ronald McDonalds with nicknames like Tweedledeeand Tweedledum would strip them of all authority. Butsomehow, these guys seem to have a talent for going fromjoking to deadly in a heartbeat.

At least, I hope they’re joking about the autopsy.The truck stops in a parking lot. That takes the

attention off me as we all look around.The adobe-style building in front of us is familiar.

It’s not my school but it is a school that I’ve seen lots oftimes. It’s Palo Alto’s high school, affectionately knownas Paly High.

Half a dozen trucks and SUVs stop in the parking lot.The soldier still keeps an eye on me, but he lowers hisrifle to a 45-degree angle.

A lot of people stare at us as the rest of the smallcaravan stops in the parking lot. They all saw me in thearms of the demon-winged creature that was actuallyRaffe, and they all thought I was dead. I feel self-conscious so I sit down on the bench beside my sister.

One of the men reaches to touch my arm. Maybe he

wants to see if I’m warm like the living or cold like thedead.

My sister’s face changes instantly from a blank slateto a growling animal as she snaps at the man. Her razor-grafted teeth flash as she moves, emphasizing the threat.

As soon as the man backs off, she goes back to herblank expression and doll-like stance.

The man stares, looking back and forth between usfor clues to questions I can’t answer. Everyone in theparking lot saw what just happened, and they all stare at ustoo.

Welcome to the freak show.

PAIGE AND I are used to being stared at. I wouldjust ignore it while Paige always smiled at the gawkersfrom her wheelchair. They almost always smiled back.Paige’s charm was hard to resist.

Once upon a time.Our mother starts speaking in tongues again. This

time she’s looking at me while she chants, as if she’spraying to me. The guttural almost-words coming from herthroat dominate the hushed noises of the crowd. Leave it toMom to add a serious dose of creepiness even in thesmoky light of day.

“All right, let’s move out,” says Obi in a strongvoice. He’s at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders anda muscular body, but it’s his commanding presence and

confidence that set him apart as the leader of theResistance. Everyone watches and listens as he walks bythe various trucks and SUVs, looking like a real militarycommander in a war zone. “Clear the trucks and head intothe building. Stay out of the open sky as much aspossible.”

That breaks the mood and people start hopping off thetrucks. The people in our truck push and shove each otherin their rush to get away from us.

“Drivers,” calls Obi. “When the trucks are cleared,spread out your vehicles and park them within easy reach.Hide them among the dead traffic or somewhere that’shard to see from above.” He walks through the river ofrefugees and soldiers, giving purpose and direction topeople who would otherwise be lost.

“I don’t want any signs that this area is occupied.Nothing is to be cleared or dumped within a one-mileradius.” Obi pauses when he sees Dee and Dum standingside by side, staring at us.

“Gentlemen,” says Obi. Dee and Dum break out oftheir trance and look over at Obi. “Please show the newrecruits where to go and what to do.”

“Right,” says Dee, giving Obi a little-boy salute witha little-boy smile.

“Newbies!” calls Dum. “Anyone who doesn’t knowwhat they’re supposed to do, follow us.”

“Step right up, folks,” says Dee.

I guess that’s us. I get up stiffly and reachautomatically for my sister, but I stop before I touch her asif a part of me believes she’s a dangerous animal. “Comeon, Paige.”

I’m not sure what I’ll do if she doesn’t move. But shegets up and follows me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get usedto seeing her stand on her own legs.

Mom follows too. She doesn’t stop chanting, though.If anything, it’s louder and more fervent than before.

We all step into the flow of newcomers following thetwins.

Dum walks backwards, talking to us. “We’re goingback to high school where our survival instincts are attheir finest.”

“If you get the urge to graffiti the walls or beat upyour old math teacher,” says Dee, “do it where the birdscan’t see you.”

We walk by the main adobe building. From the street,the school looks deceptively small. Behind the mainbuilding, though, there’s a whole campus of modernbuildings connected by covered walkways.

“If any of you are injured, take a seat in this fineclassroom.” Dee opens up the nearest door and peeks in.It’s a classroom with a life-sized skeleton hanging on astand. “Bones will keep you company while you wait forthe doctor.”

“And if any of you are doctors,” says Dum, “your

patients are waiting for you.”“Is this all of us?” I ask. “We’re the only survivors?”Dee looks over at Dum. “Are zombie girls allowed

to talk?”“If they’re cute and willing to do zombie-girl mud

fights.”“Duuude. Right on.”“That’s a disgusting image.” I give them a sideways

look but I’m secretly glad they’re not freaked out about mecoming back from the dead.

“It’s not like we’d pick the decayed ones, Penryn.Just ones like you, fresh from the dead.”

“Only, with ripped clothes and stuff.”“And hungry for breeeeasts.”“He means brains.”“That’s exactly what I meant.”“Could you please answer the question?” asks a guy

wearing glasses that are completely free of cracks. Hedoesn’t look like he’s in a joking mood.

“Right,” says Dee getting all serious. “This is ourrendezvous point. The others will meet us here.”

We keep walking in the weak sunshine, and the guywith the glasses ends up in the back of the group.

Dum leans over to Dee and whispers loud enough forme to hear, “How much you want to bet that that guy willbe the first in line to bet on the zombie-girl fight?”

They exchange grins and wiggle their eyebrows at

each other.October winds seep through my blouse and I can’t

help looking up at the overcast sky for a particular angelwith bat-shaped wings and a corny sense of humor. Iswipe my foot at the overgrown grass and make myselflook away.

The class windows are full of posters and noticesabout college entrance requirements. Another windowdisplays shelves of student art. Clay, wood, and papiermâché figurines of all colors and styles cover every inchof shelf space. Some of them are so good that it makes mesad that these kids won’t be making art again for a long,long time.

As we move through the school, the twins are carefulto stay behind my family. I fall back, thinking it’s not a badidea to have Paige in front where I can keep an eye on her.She walks stiffly as if she’s still not used to her legs. I’mnot used to seeing her like this either, and I can’t stopstaring at the crude stitches all over her body that make herlook like a voodoo doll.

“So that’s your sister?” asks Dee in a quiet voice.“Yeah.”“The one you risked your life for?”“Yeah.”The twins nod politely in that automatic way that

people do when they don’t want to say somethinginsulting.

“Your family any better?” I ask.Dee and Dum look at each other, assessing.“Nah,” says Dee.“Not really,” says Dum at the same time.

OUR NEW home is a history class. The wallsare filled with timelines and posters of the story ofhumanity. Mesopotamia, the Great Pyramid of Giza, theOttoman Empire, the Ming Dynasty. And the Black Death.

My history teacher said that the Black Death wipedout thirty to sixty percent of Europe’s population. Heasked us to imagine what it’d be like to have sixty percentof your world dead. I couldn’t imagine it at the time. Itseemed so unreal.

In weird contrast, dominating all of these ancienthistory posters is a picture of an astronaut on the moonwith blue Earth rising behind him. Every time I see ourball of blue and white in space, I think it must be the mostbeautiful world in the universe.

But that seems unreal now, too.Outside, more trucks rumble into the parking lot. I

walk over to the window as Mom starts pushing desks andchairs to one side. I peek outside to see one of the twinsleading the dazed newcomers into the school like the PiedPiper.

Behind me, my little sister says, “Hungry.”

I stiffen and stuff all kinds of ugliness into the vault inmy head.

I see a reflection of Paige in the window. In theblurry otherworld of that image, she looks up at Mom likeany other kid expecting dinner. But in the warped glass,her head is distorted, magnifying her stitches andlengthening her razor-grafted teeth.

Mom bends down and strokes her baby’s hair. Shebegins humming her haunting apology song.

I SETTLE onto a cot by the corner. Lying with myback against the wall, I can see the entire room bymoonlight.

My baby sister lies on a cot against the wall acrossfrom me. Paige looks tiny under her blanket beneath theposters of larger-than-life historical figures. Confucius,Florence Nightingale, Gandhi, Helen Keller, the DalaiLama.

Would she have turned out like them if we weren’t inthe World After?

My mother sits cross-legged by Paige’s cot, hummingher melody. We’ve tried giving my sister the two things Icould get from the disorganized mess in the cafeteria thatis supposed to turn into a kitchen by morning. But she

couldn’t hold down either the canned soup or the proteinbar.

I shift my weight on the canvas cot, trying to find aposition where my sword hilt won’t jab into my ribs.Having it on me is the best way to keep anyone from tryingto pick it up and finding out that I’m the only one who canlift it. The last thing I need is having to explain how Iended up with an angel sword.

Sleeping with a weapon has nothing to do with mysister being in the room. Nothing at all.

Nor does it have anything to do with Raffe. It’s notlike the sword is my only memento of my time with him. Ihave plenty of cuts and bruises to remind me of the days Ispent with my enemy angel.

Who I’ll probably never see again.So far, no one has asked about him. I guess it’s more

common than not to have your group break up these days.I shut down that thought and close my eyes.My sister moans again over my mom’s humming.“Go to sleep, Paige,” I say. To my surprise, her

breathing relaxes and she settles down. I take a deepbreath and close my eyes.

My mother’s melody fades into oblivion.

I DREAM that I am in the forest where themassacre happened. I am just outside the old Resistance

camp where soldiers died trying to defend themselvesagainst low demons.

Blood drips off the branches and plops onto the deadleaves like raindrops. In my dream, none of the bodies thatshould be here are here and neither are the terrifiedsoldiers who huddled together back-to-back with theirrifles facing outward.

It’s just a clearing dripping in blood.In the center stands Paige.She wears an old-fashioned flower-print dress, like

the ones those girls hanging on the tree wore. Her hair isdrenched in blood and so is her dress. I’m not sure whichis harder to look at, the blood or the bruised stitchescrisscrossing her face.

She lifts her arms toward me as if waiting for me topick her up even though she’s seven years old now.

I’m pretty sure my sister was not part of the massacrebut here she is anyway. Somewhere in the forest, mymother says, “Look into her eyes. They’re the same asthey’ve always been.”

But I can’t. I can’t look at her at all. Her eyes aren’tthe same. They can’t be.

I turn and run from her.Tears stream down my face and I call out into the

woods away from the girl behind me. “Paige!” My voicecracks. “I’m coming. Hang on. I’ll be there soon.”

But the only sign of my sister is the crunching of the

dead leaves as the new Paige shadows me through thewoods.

I WAKE to my mom scraping something out of hersweater pocket. She puts it onto the windowsill wheremorning light filters through. It’s yellow-brown goo andcrushed eggshells. She’s quite careful about it, trying toget every yucky drop onto the sill.

Paige breathes evenly, sounding like she’ll beknocked out for some time. I try to shake off the last of mydream, but wisps of it stay with me.

Someone knocks on the door.The door opens and the freckled face of one of the

twins peeks into our classroom. I don’t know which oneso I just think of him as Dee-Dum. His nose wrinkles indistaste when he smells the rotten eggs.

“Obi wants to see you. He’s got some questions.”

“Great,” I say drowsily.“Come on. It’ll be fun.” He throws me an overly

bright smile.“What if I don’t want to go?”“I like you, kid,” he says. “You’re a rebel.” He leans

against the doorframe and nods his approval. “But to behonest, no one has the obligation to feed you, house you,protect you, be nice to you, treat you like a human being—”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” I drag myself out of bed, gladthat I slept in a T-shirt and shorts. My sword thuds ontothe floor. I had forgotten that I had it with me under theblanket.

“Shh! You’ll wake Paige,” whispers my mother.Paige’s eyes open instantly. She lies there like the

dead, staring at the ceiling.“Nice sword,” Dee-Dum says too casually.Alarm bells go off in my head. “Almost as good as a

cow prodder.” I half-expect Mom to zap her prodder athim, but it hangs innocently on her cot frame.

More guilt hits me as I realize how glad I am thatMom has the prodder in case she needs to defend herselffrom… people.

More than half the people here are carrying somekind of makeshift weapon. The sword is one of the betterones, and I’m glad I don’t have to explain why I’mcarrying it. But there’s something about a sword that

seems to catch more attention than I like. I pick it up andstrap it across my shoulder to discourage him from tryingto play with it.

“Got a name for her?” asks Dee-Dum.“Who?”“Your sword.” He says it the way I might say Duh.“Oh, please. Not you too.” I pick through the random

assortment of clothes my mom collected last night. Shealso came back with a bunch of empty soda bottles andother junk from who knows where, but I leave that pilealone.

“I used to know a guy who had a katana.”“A what?”“A Japanese samurai sword. Gorgeous.” He clutches

his heart like he’s in love. “He called it the Sword ofLight. I would have sold my grandmother into slavery forthat.”

I nod like that’s a given.“Can I name your sword?”“No.” I pull out a pair of jeans that might fit and one

sock.“Why not?”“Already has a name.” I continue digging through the

pile for a matching sock.“What is it?”“Pooky Bear.”His friendly face suddenly becomes serious. “You’re

naming your collector’s-item, kick-ass sword that’s madeto maim and kill, specifically designed to bring yourginormous enemies to their knees and hear the lamentationof their women—Pooky Bear?”

“Yeah, you like it?”“Even joking about that is a crime against nature. You

know that, right? I’m trying desperately not to make ananti-girl comment right now, but you’re making it prettyhard.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I shrug. “I might call it Toto orFlossy instead. What do you think?”

He looks at me like I’m nuttier than my mom. “Am Imistaken? Do you actually have a purse dog in thatscabbard?”

“Oh, I wonder if I can find a pink sheath for PookyBear. Maybe with little rhinestones? What? Too much?”

He walks out shaking his head.He’s just too easy to tease. I take my time changing

and getting ready before following Dee-Dum out the door.The hallway feels as crowded as the Oakland

coliseum during the World Series.A pair of middle-aged men exchange a feather for a

prescription bottle of pills. I guess this is the WorldAfter’s version of a drug deal. Another shows off whatlooks like a little finger, then snatches it back as a guyreaches for it. They begin whisper-arguing.

A pair of women walk by huddled over a few cans of

soup as if they held a pot of gold in their arms. They scaneveryone nervously as they weave through the hallway.Next to the main door, a couple of people with freshlyshaved heads tape up apocalypse cult fliers.

Outside, the overgrown lawn is eerily deserted withtrash blowing in the wind. Anyone who looks down fromthe sky would assume this building is just as abandoned asany other.

Dee-Dum tells me that it’s already a big joke that theResistance upper echelon has taken over the teachers’lounge and that Obi has taken the principal’s office. Wewalk across the school grounds to Obi’s mission-styleadobe building, staying on the covered walkway even if itmeans going the long way around.

The lobby and halls of the main building are evenbusier than mine but the people here look like they have apurpose. A guy rushes down the hallway dragging cablesbehind him. Several people move desks and chairs fromone room to another.

A teenage kid pushes a cart piled with sandwichesand pitchers of water. As it rolls by, people grab the foodand drinks as if they have the right to meal delivery if theywork in this building.

Dee-Dum picks up a couple of sandwiches and handsone to me. Just like that, I’m part of the in-crowd.

I gobble up my breakfast before someone points outthat I don’t belong here. But I almost choke on a mouthful

when I notice something.The gun barrels in this building are extra long. They

look like the silencers you see assassins screwing ontotheir rifles in movies.

If we’re attacked by angels, noise won’t matterbecause the angels will already know where we are. But ifwe’re shooting each other…

The food in my mouth suddenly tastes like cold, slimySpam and rock-hard bread instead of the delicious treat itwas a moment ago.

Dee-Dum pushes through a door.“—screwup,” says a male voice from inside the

room.Several rows of people sit in front of computers,

totally immersed in their displays. I haven’t seen anythinglike this since before the attack. Some of them are quite asight with their glasses clashing with their devil-horn gangtattoos.

More people are setting up computers in the backrows and rolling large TVs in front of the chalkboard. Itlooks like the Resistance has figured out how to get asteady power source, at least for one room.

In the center of all the activity is Obi. A line ofpeople follows him around, waiting for his approval onsomething. Several people in the room seem to have oneeye on him and one eye on something else.

Boden stands beside him. His nose is still swollen

and bruised from our little schoolyard fight a few daysago. Maybe next time he’ll talk to people like they’rehuman beings instead of bullying them, even if they arepetite girls like me who seem like easy targets.

“It was an adjustment in plans, not a screwup,” saysBoden. “And no way in hell was it a ‘treason againsthumanity.’ How many times do I have to explain this?”

Amazingly, there’s a basket of candy bars by thedoor. Dee-Dum grabs two and hands one to me. When Ifeel the Snickers bar in my hand, I know I’m in the innersanctum.

“Jumping the gun is not an adjustment in plans,Boden,” says Obi as he looks at a document handed to himby a crusty soldier-type. “We can’t execute a militarystrategy by letting a foot soldier decide the timing justbecause he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and spilled all thedetails. Every street pilgrim and hotel whore knew aboutit.”

“But it wasn’t—”“Your fault,” says Obi. “I know. You’ve said it ad

nauseam.” Obi glances my way as he listens to the nextone in line.

After a moment of fantasizing about the taste of thecandy bar, I slip it into my jacket pocket. Maybe I canentice Paige to eat it.

“You’re dismissed for now, Boden.” Obi motions forme to come in.

Boden gives me a snarl as we pass each other.Obi grins at me. The woman who’s next in line looks

over and eyes me with more than professional curiosity.“Good to see you alive, Penryn,” says Obi.“Good to be alive,” I say. “Are we having movie

nights?”“We’re setting up a remote surveillance system

around the Bay Area,” says Obi. “It pays to have so manygeniuses in the Valley who can make the impossiblepossible again.”

Someone in the last row calls out, “Camera twenty-five is online.” The other programmers continue to tap ontheir computers but I can feel their excitement.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.“Anything interesting,” says Obi.“I got something!” a programmer in the back yells

out. “Angels in Sunnyvale on Lawrence Expressway.”“Put it on the front screen,” says Obi.One of the large TV screens at the front of the

classroom comes on.

THE TV lights up.An angel with blue wings stalks through the rubble of

an abandoned street. The road has a giant crack zigzaggingdown the center with one side higher than the other.

Another angel lands behind the first, then two others.They look around, then walk off-screen.

“Can you turn the camera?”“Not this one, sorry.”“Got another one!” says a programmer to my right.

“This one’s at SFO.” I always wondered how they gotSFO from San Francisco International Airport.

“Put it on screen,” says Obi.Another TV comes alive in front of the chalkboard.An angel rushes in a half-limp, half-run along a field

of asphalt. One white wing is off-kilter and draggingbehind him.

“We got ourselves a lame bird,” says someonebehind me. He sounds excited.

“What’s he running from?” asks Obi almost tohimself.

The camera has trouble with its picture. It keepsswitching from too bright to too dark. It settles onadjusting the lighting to the bright background, making thedetails of the angel dark and hard to see.

As he gets closer, though, he turns to see whatever ischasing him, giving us a good look at his face.

It’s Beliel, the demon who stole Raffe’s wings. He’sin bad shape. I wonder what happened?

Only one of his stolen wings seems functional. Itkeeps opening and closing as though reflexively trying tofly while the other wing drags in the dust. I hate to seeRaffe’s gorgeous wings abused like that, and I try not tothink of the abuse they took on my own watch.

There’s something wrong with Beliel’s knee. Helimps and favors it even as he tries to run. He’s movingfaster than any injured human could, but I’m guessing thatit’s still less than half his normal speed.

Even from this distance, I can see a vivid red stainseeping through his white pants just above his boots.Funny that the demon has taken to wearing white, probablysince he got his new wings.

As he nears the camera, he turns his head again tolook behind him. There’s the familiar sneer. Arrogant,angry, but this time, with more than a touch of fear.

“What’s he scared of?” Obi asks the question that I’mwondering.

Beliel limps out of the frame, leaving only a cross-section of the empty runway.

“Can we see what’s behind him?” asks Obi.“That’s as far as the camera will turn.”A few seconds tick by, and it feels like the room is

holding its breath.Then Beliel’s pursuer shows up on the screen in all

his glory.Demonic wings spread out above his head. Light

glints off the curved hooks, sliding down the edge of hiswings as he stalks his prey.

“Jesus H. Christ,” says someone behind me.The pursuer seems to be in no rush, almost as if he’s

savoring the moment. His head is down, with his wingsshading his face, making the details even harder to seethan Beliel’s. And unlike Beliel, he doesn’t turn his headto give us a good look at his face.

But I know him. Even with his new demon wings, Iknow him.

It’s Raffe.Everything about him—his pace, his arched wings,

his shaded face—is the perfect nightmare image of the

devil stalking his prey.Even though I’m sure it’s Raffe, my heart stutters with

fear at the sight of him.This is not the Raffe I’ve come to know.Does Obi recognize him as the guy who was with me

when we first came to the Resistance camp?I’m guessing not. I’m not sure I would have

recognized Raffe if I hadn’t known about his new wings,even though every feature of his face and body has beenburned into my memory.

Obi turns to his men. “We’ve hit the jackpot! A lameangel and a demon. I want a hunting party on its way to theairport in two minutes!”

The twins are moving before the order is given.“We’re on it,” they say in unison as they run out the door.

“Go! Go! Go!” I’ve never seen Obi so excited.Obi pauses at the doorway to say, “Penryn, join us.

You’re the only one who’s been near a demon.” Everyonestill thinks a demon carried me to my family when I wasseemingly dead.

I shut my mouth before I can say that I don’t knowanything. I run to catch up to the group stampeding downthe hallway.

SAN FRANCISCO International Airport used tobe about twenty minutes north of Palo Alto if there was notraffic. Of course, the highway is clogged now and drivingsixty miles an hour is no longer feasible nor a good idea.But no one seems to have told Dee-Dum that. He takesopen side roads in our SUV, weaving through abandonedcars and thumping over sidewalks like a drunken race-cardriver.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I say.“I’m ordering you not to,” says Obi.“Ah, don’t say that,” says Dee-Dum. “She’s a born

rebel. She’ll puke just to make a point.”“You’re here for a reason, Penryn,” says Obi. “And

throwing up in my car is not part of it. Buck up, Soldier.”

“I’m not your soldier.”“Not yet,” says Obi with a wide grin. “Why don’t you

fill us in on what happened at the aerie? Tell us everythingyou saw and heard, even if you think it won’t be helpful.”

“And if you have to get sick,” says Dee-Dum, “shootfor Obi’s direction, not mine.”

I end up telling them almost everything I saw. I leaveout all things Raffe, but I tell them about the endless angelparty at the aerie with champagne and hors d’oeuvres,costumes, servants, and the sheer decadence of it all. ThenI tell them about the scorpion-angel fetuses in the basementlab, and the people being fed to the scorpions.

I hesitate to tell them about the experiments on thekids. Will they put two and two together and suspect thatthese kids might be the low demons who were tearingpeople apart on the roads? Will they suspect that Paigemight be one of them? I’m not sure what to do, but I end uptelling them in vague terms that kids have been operatedon.

“So your sister, is she all right?” asks Obi.“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be back to herself soon.” I say

this without hesitation. Of course she’s all right. What elsecan she be? What choice do we have? I try to radiateconfidence through my voice despite the worry that gnawsat me.

“Tell us more about these scorpion angels,” says ourother passenger. He has wavy hair, glasses, and rich

brown skin. He has the air of a scholar who’s getting hisgeek on over a favorite topic.

In my relief to change the subject from Paige, I tellthem every detail I can recall. Their size, their dragonflywings, their total lack of uniformity that’s so unlike labspecimens you see in the movies. How some of themseemed embryonic but others looked nearly fully formed. Itell him about the people trapped in the tanks with them,getting their lives sucked out of them.

When I finish, there’s a pause as everyone absorbsmy tale.

Just as I think this question-and-answer session willbe easy, they ask about the demon who carried me anddropped me off at the Resistance rescue truck during theaerie attack. I have no idea what to say so my answer toall their questions is, “I don’t know. I was unconscious.”

Despite that, I’m surprised at how many questionsthey ask about “the demon.”

Was he the devil? Did he say anything about what hewas doing there? Where did you meet him? Do you knowwhere he went? Why did he drop you off with us?

“I don’t know,” I say for the umpteenth time. “I wasunconscious.”

“Can you reach him again?”That last question squeezes my heart a little. “No.”Dee-Dum does a quick U-turn to avoid a backed-up

side road.

“Anything else you’d like to tell us?” asks Obi.“No.”“Thank you,” says Obi. He turns to look at the other

passenger. “Sanjay, your turn. I hear you have a theoryabout the angels that you want to share with us?”

“Yes,” says the scholar holding up a map of theworld. “I think that most of the killing during the GreatAttack could have been incidental. Sort of a side effect ofthe angels coming here. My hypothesis is that when acouple of them enter our world, it’s a local phenomenon.”

Sanjay pricks a pin through the map. “A hole in ourworld is created which lets them come in. It probablycauses some kind of local weather disturbance but nothingtoo dramatic. But when an entire legion comes through,this is what happens.”

He punches a screwdriver into the paper. The handleand his hand also go through, tearing the map.

“My theory is that the world rips when they invade.This is what triggered the earthquakes, the tsunamis, theweather disturbances—everything catastrophic that causedthe majority of the damage and deaths.” Thunder rollsthrough the gray sky as if to agree with him.

“It wasn’t the angels themselves who controllednature when they invaded,” says Sanjay. “That’s why theydidn’t create a giant tsunami to swallow us up when weattacked the aerie. They can’t. They are living, breathingcreatures just like us. They may have abilities we don’t

have, but they’re not godlike.”“You’re telling us that they killed this many people

and they weren’t even trying?”Sanjay rakes his fingers through his thick hair. “Well,

they did kill a bunch of people after we killed their leader,but they may not be as all-powerful as we initially thought.Of course, I have no proof. It’s just a theory that fits whatlittle we know. But if you guys can bring back somebodies for us to study, we may be able to shed some lighton this.”

“Want me to confiscate some angel parts from thehallways?” asks Dee-Dum.

I don’t joke about how he and his brother areprobably dealing in angel parts, just in case it’s true.

“There’s no guarantee any of those parts areauthentic,” says Sanjay. “In fact, I’d be surprised if any ofthem are. Besides, it would be much more helpful to studyan entire body.” The shreds of the paper depicting ourworld lie drooping on Sanjay’s lap.

“Cross your fingers,” says Obi. “If we’re lucky, wemight be able to bring you some live ones.”

I feel a flutter of unease. But I tell myself that theywon’t capture Raffe. They can’t. He’ll be all right.

The two-way radio on the dash comes alive and avoice says, “Something’s going on at the old aerie.”

Obi grabs the handset and asks, “What kind ofsomething?”

“Angels in the air. Too many to hunt.”Obi takes a pair of binoculars from the glove

compartment and looks toward the city. In most places hewouldn’t have a clear view, but we’re near the water sohe has a shot at seeing something.

“What are they up to?” asks Dee-Dum.“No idea,” says Obi looking through the binoculars.

“There are a lot of them, though. Something interesting isgoing on.”

“We’re halfway to the city already,” says Dee-Dum.“He said there were too many to capture,” says

Sanjay sounding nervous.“True,” says Obi. “But it’s a chance to find out what

they’re doing. And you wanted angel bodies to study. Theaerie will be the best place to find them.”

“I think it’s gotta be one place or the other, boss,”says Dee-Dum. “If we go to the airport, it’ll take everyonewe’ve got to bag our targets, assuming they’re still there.”

Obi sighs, seeming reluctant. He speaks into theradio. “Change of plans. All vehicles head to the oldaerie. Approach with extreme caution. Repeat, approachwith extreme caution. Hostiles have been sighted. This isnow an observation mission. But if you get the chance,bring back a bird specimen. Dead or alive.”

THE ICY rain pelts my face as we race throughabandoned cars in a sea of junk. Well, racing is a strongword for an SUV rolling at thirty miles an hour, but thesedays that speed is neck-breaking—literally, since I’mperched on the window and hanging on for dear life.

“Tank at two o’clock,” I call out.“Tank? Seriously?” asks Dee-Dum. He strains his

neck to see above the debris cluttering the road. He soundsexcited even though we both know that the angels wouldhear a tank from miles away.

“I kid you not. Looks dead.” My rain-soaked hairdrips down my neck and traces a finger of ice down myback. It’s a light rain, as most San Francisco rains are, butenough to seep through everything. The wet chill freezes

my hands and it’s hard to hang onto the grab-handle.“Bus at twelve o’clock,” I say.“Yeah, that I can see.”The bus lies on its side. I briefly wonder if it got

tilted by one of the earthquakes that shook the world whenthe angels came, or if it was picked up and tossed byavenging angels when the Resistance hit their aerie. Myguess is that it was tossed, since there’s a long crater inthe road near the bus with an upside-down Hummer in it.

“Uh, giant crater—” Before I can finish my sentence,Dee-Dum swerves the car. I hang on tight as I’m pitched tothe right. For a moment, I think I’m going to smash into theasphalt face-first.

He does a crazy zigzag maneuver before hestraightens the car.

“A little forewarning would be nice,” says Dee-Dumin a singsong voice.

“A little smoother driving would be nicer,” I saymimicking his tone. The hard metal of the car door pressesagainst my thighs, bruising my muscles as we bump ontothe sidewalk.

As if that isn’t bad enough, I haven’t seen a singlehint of batwings attached to an Adonis-like body anywherealong the way. Not that I expected to see Raffe.

“That’s it. Glasses or no, it’s Sanjay’s turn.” I slidedown from my perch and sink into the back seat as Sanjayclimbs up to sit in the open window on his side.

We’re approaching the Financial District from adifferent direction than Raffe and I had a couple of daysago. This part of town looks like it wasn’t the nicest partto begin with, but a few buildings still stand with onlytheir edges singed.

Colorful beads are splashed over the sidewalk infront of a store with a sign reading Beads and Feathers.But there’s not a single feather in sight. The bounty thatsomeone has put out for angel parts must still going strong.I wonder if all the chickens and pigeons have beenplucked? Their feathers might be worth more than theirmeat if they could be passed off as angel feathers.

My stomach feels full of ice as we near the disasterzone that was once the Financial District. The area isdeserted now, with not even scavengers looking for bits ofusable supplies or scraps of food.

“Where is everybody?”The Financial District still stands, or at least a few

blocks of it does. In the center, there’s a gaping hole in theskyline where the aerie used to be. A couple of monthsago, it was a high-end, Art-Deco hotel. Then the angelstook over and turned it into their aerie. Now it’s just a pileof rubble from when the Resistance crashed a truck full ofexplosives into it.

“Oh, that’s not good,” says Dee-Dum, looking up intothe sky.

I see it the same time he does.

A funnel of angels swirls from the place where theaerie used to be.

“What are they doing here?” I whisper.Dee-Dum pulls the SUV over and turns off the engine.

Without a word, he takes two pairs of binoculars out of theglove compartment and hands one to me. Obi already hashis so I guess I’m supposed to share mine with Sanjay.

Obi grabs his rifle and gets out. I follow with myheart pounding in my chest.

I worry that the angels heard our engines, but theycontinue to fly without looking toward us. We zigzag onfoot from car to car toward the old aerie. It doesn’t seemto occur to Obi or Dee-Dum to run away.

An angel with snowy white wings takes off into theblanket of clouds. My eyes follow him even though I knowRaffe doesn’t have those wings any more.

As we near the destroyed building that was once theiraerie, everything is covered in dust. The pulverizedconcrete fell all over the cars, the streets, and the deadbodies. Cars lie strewn upside down and sideways on thesidewalks, on top of other cars, and partway embedded innearby buildings.

Our feet crunch over broken concrete as we dartbetween the cars and debris. The angels were not pleasedabout the attack in the middle of their party, and they leftthe scene the way a child would leave a Lego town after atantrum.

There are bodies lying in the street and they’re allhuman. I get the sick feeling that the attack didn’t do asmuch damage to the angels as we had initially thought.Where are the angel bodies?

I glance over at Dee-Dum and see from his eyes thathe’s wondering the same thing. We pause close enough tosee what’s going on.

The old aerie is just a pile of broken boulders andbent rebar. The steel rods that used to support the high-risehotel now stand broken and exposed like bloodstainedbones.

I expected the aerie to be a mountain of rubble.Instead, the rubble is spread everywhere.

The place is swarming with angels.Winged bodies lie haphazardly in the wreckage

while some are arranged in a row on the asphalt. Angelsdig up enormous boulders and toss them away from whatwas once the aerie. A few of them drag angel bodies andline them up on the road.

My heart is racing so hard I swear I have to swallowto keep it from galloping out of my mouth.

A warrior with spotted wings walks out of one of thenearby buildings with a bucket in each hand, sloshingwater with every step. He kicks the nearest body.

The supposedly dead angel groans and starts tomove.

The warrior tosses water onto the bodies in the

street. They were wet from the drizzle anyway but nowthey’re soaked.

As soon as the bodies get splashed, they begin tomove.

“WHAT THE—” says Sanjay, too startled toremember to be quiet.

A couple of the angels lying on the asphaltimmediately resurrect and vigorously shake the drops outof their hair like dogs. The others groan and movesluggishly as if the morning alarm went off sooner thanexpected.

Some of them are clearly shot up with bullets. Theirwounds have ugly entry points and even uglier exit pointsthat look like raw hamburger flowers.

The warrior with spotted wings grabs his otherbucket and tosses the water onto the rest of the “bodies.”He also kicks a few of the wounded still lying on theasphalt.

“Get up, maggots! What do you think this is?Naptime? You’re an embarrassment.”

Apparently, Sanjay’s not the only one who forgot tobe quiet because one of the angels grabs a chunk of brokenconcrete and throws it at a car the way someone mightthrow a stone at a rat. And just like rats, two of our menscamper out of the way as it smashes into the car that theywere hiding behind.

A couple of other angels grab chunks of brokenfixtures and rebar and throw them at us. I barely have timeto dive to the sidewalk as the car windows shatter.

I jump up and run so hard I’m hyperventilating by thetime I hide in the doorway of a building. I peek at theangels. They’re not chasing us any more than we wouldchase rats in a garbage dump.

Obi and Dee-Dum see me from their hiding placebehind a truck and sprint to my doorway. We huddle andpeek through our binoculars.

A group of angels digs into the center of the rubble,tossing debris left and right. As they find bodies, theyleave the dead humans and pull out limp angels who mightwake at any moment.

The angels doing the digging are larger than the oneswho are being dug out. The big ones carry swords aroundtheir waists, which I assume means that they are warriors.From what I can see, all the victims are smaller and don’tcarry swords.

Now that I think about it, just how many warriors didI see at the aerie when Raffe and I walked through it?There were the guards. A few in the hallways. And thattable full of warriors where that scumbag Josiah thealbino stood. Aside from them, no one else carriedswords. Did they bring administrators and other non-fighting types to our world? Cooks? Medics? And if so,where were the warriors when the aerie was attacked?

I groan out loud.“What?” mouths Obi.I try to figure out how to talk to them without being

overheard. Dee-Dum must have an idea of what I wantbecause he pulls out a pad of paper and a pencil and handsit to me.

I write, “How many warrior angels did you see at theaerie last night?”

Dee-Dum shakes his head and puts his thumb andforefinger only an inch apart, telling me very few.

He glances over at the angels and I can seeunderstanding dawning in his face. He writes, “More herenow than during our strike.”

“Maybe they were on a mission?”He nods.By sheer luck, it looks like the Resistance hit the

aerie when almost all the fighters were gone. No wonderso many of the angels went down without a proper fight. Iremember the chaos in the foyer as both humans and angels

ran in every direction at the beginning of the attack. Therewere angels who ran out into the machine-gun fire to try totake flight. I thought it was sheer daredevil behavior butmaybe it was simply inexperience and panic.

Still, even the civilian angels were a force to bereckoned with as they grabbed Resistance trucks, tossedsoldiers, and crushed the frantic crowds.

Now, some of the angels lying on the asphalt lookseriously injured. Some of them are so badly off that theycan’t fly on their own. The warriors yank them by theirarms as if annoyed and fly them out.

None of them are dead as far as I can see.Obi’s expression shows that he’s beginning to

understand their healing powers. I told them during thequestion-and-answer session that angels could heal evenfrom things that would kill a human, but it looks like Obi’sonly now beginning to believe it.

When the warriors dig down to ground level, the onein charge signals, and more than half the remaining angelstake their injured and fly off. The remaining angels lookresentful as they dig. I suspect warriors don’t like to domenial labor.

Although I can’t see into the pit they’re digging, I canhear screeches. I recognize the noise from the thing thatattacked and paralyzed me in the aerie basement. Thereare still a few scorpion fetuses alive down there.

The warrior in charge pulls out his sword and jumps

in.A scorpion screeches. From the sound of it, it’s being

skewered.

IT’S NOT long before the streets are quiet. Thereweren’t many surviving scorpions to begin with but now,I’m willing to bet there are none.

Masculine bodies burst out of the pit and disappearinto the cloud cover. One of them carries a limp angel, theonly one I’ve seen who looks dead.

Somewhere, far away, thunder rumbles. The windwhistles through the corridor of buildings.

We wait until it seems safe to get up and take a closerlook. I’d be shocked if there’s even a skin sample of theangels that we could bring back.

We approach the rubble, staying hidden as much aspossible even though the coast seems clear.

We’re a stone’s throw away from the smoking

wreckage when a boulder of concrete clanks down theside of the rubble pile. I freeze, eyes and ears alert.

Another piece falls and rolls into a tiny landslide.Something is coming up from the rubble basement.

We all take cover behind cars, watching carefully.More rock-sized debris falls and it’s some time

before hands reach up to the top of the rubble. A heademerges. At first, I think it’s some kind of demon thattunneled out from hell. But then, the creature pulls the restof itself up, trembling and wheezing the entire time.

It’s an old woman.But I’ve never seen anything like her. She’s

shriveled, frail, and bony. Most striking of all, her skin isso dry it looks like beef jerky.

Dee-Dum and I look at each other, both wonderingwhat she’s doing in there. She climbs up onto the peak andbegins a shaky trek along the debris pile, moving as if shehas arthritis.

She wears a tattered lab coat that’s five sizes too bigfor her. It’s so stained with dirt and rust-colored blotchesthat it’s hard to believe it was ever white. She holds itclosed as she gingerly steps across the rubble, looking asif she’s holding herself together.

The wind blows her hair in her face and she tossesher head to get it out of the way. There’s something oddabout both her full hair and that gesture. It takes me aminute to figure out what it is.

When was the last time I saw an old woman toss herhead to get her hair away from her face? And her hair isdark all the way to her scalp even though the latest post-apocalyptic fashion for older women is at least an inch ofgray roots.

She freezes like a frightened animal and looks up atus as we emerge from behind the cars. Even with herdried-up face, there’s something familiar about her that’snagging me.

Then a memory tickles my mind.An image of two little kids hanging onto the fence,

watching their mom walk toward the aerie. Their momturning around to blow a goodbye kiss.

She ended up as dinner in the fetus tank of one of thescorpion angels. I broke her tank with my sword and lefther there to fend for herself because I couldn’t drag herout.

She’s alive.Only, she looks like she has aged fifty years. Her

once beautiful eyes have sunk into her face. Her cheeksare so lean I can almost see the skeleton beneath them. Herhands are talons covered in thin skin.

She scrambles away in abject terror as she sees usgetting up from our hiding places. She’s almost on allfours as she runs off, and my heart breaks to remember herhealth and beauty before the monsters got to her. She can’tget very far in her condition, and she hides, trembling,

behind a post-office box.She’s a tiny slip of a thing, but she’s a survivor and I

have to respect that. She deserves to get away from theplace where she was buried alive, and she’ll need energyfor that. I dig through my pockets and feel the Snickers bar.I root around to see if there’s something less valuable butfind nothing.

I take a few steps toward the poor thing as shecringes in her hiding place.

My sister has more experience with this kind of thingthan I do. But I guess I’ve learned a thing or two fromwatching Paige befriend all those abandoned cats anddamaged kids. I put the candy bar on the road where thelady can see it, then take a few steps back to give her somesafe space.

There’s a moment when the woman watches me likea beaten animal. Then she snatches the candy bar fasterthan I would have given her credit for. She tears off thewrapper in a split second and stuffs the candy in hermouth. Her strained face relaxes as she tastes the nutty,sweet flavor from the World Before.

“My kids, my husband,” she says in a hoarse voice.“Where did everybody go?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But a lot of people ended upat the Resistance camp. They might be there.”

“What Resistance camp?”“It’s the Resistance who attacked the angels. People

are gathering to join them.”She blinks at me. “I remember you. You died.”“Neither of us died,” I say.“I did,” she says. “And I went to hell.” She wraps her

thin arms around herself again.I don’t know what to say. What difference does it

make if she actually died or not? She certainly livedthrough hell and she looks it.

Sanjay walks up to us like he’s approaching a straycat. “What’s your name?”

She glances at me for reassurance. I nod.“Clara.”“I’m Sanjay. What happened to you?”She looks at her jerkied hand. “I got sucked dry by a

monster.”“What monster?” Sanjay asks.“The scorpion angels I told you about,” I say.“The hell doctor said I could go free if I led him to

my little girls,” she says with her parched voice. “But Iwouldn’t give them up. He said the monster would liquefymy insides and drink them. Said the mature ones wouldn’tgo all the way and kill if they could help it, but thedeveloping ones would.”

Clara starts shaking. “He said it would be the mostexcruciating thing I could imagine.” She shuts her eyes asif trying to keep tears back. “Thank God I didn’t believehim.” Her voice sounds choked. “Thank God I didn’t

know any better.” She starts crying in dry heaves as if allthe fluid actually was sucked out of her.

“You didn’t give up your children and you’re alive,”I say. “That’s all that matters.”

She puts her trembling hand on my arm, then turns toSanjay. “The monster was killing me. And out of nowhere,she came and rescued me.”

Sanjay looks at me with new respect. I worry abouther telling him about Raffe, but it turns out she passed outin the basement as soon as she saw me get stung by ascorpion, so she doesn’t remember much.

Clara’s plight eats away at me like acid as we pickthrough the debris. Sanjay sits on the sidewalk beside her,talking gently with her and taking notes. Comfortingsomeone like her is the kind of thing my sister would havedone in the World Before.

We find a couple of crushed scorpions, but we findnothing of the angels themselves. Not a drop of blood or ascrape of skin that might help us learn something aboutthem.

“One little nuke,” says Dum, picking through therubble. “That’s all I ask. I’m not greedy.”

“Yeah, that and the detonation keys,” says Dee,kicking over a boulder of concrete. He sounds disgusted.“Seriously, did they really have to hide the nukes from therest of us? It’s not like we would have played with it likea toy and blown up a pasture full of cows or something.”

“Oh, man,” says Dum. “That would have been soawesome. Can you imagine? Boom!” He mimes amushroom cloud. “Moo!”

Dee gives him a long-suffering look. “You are such achild. You can’t just waste a nuke like that. You gottafigure out a way to control the trajectory so that when thebomb goes off, it shoots the radioactive cows into yourenemies.”

“Right on,” says Dum. “Squash some, infect theothers.”

“Of course, you have to put the cows on groundzero’s perimeter, close enough so they’ll rocket out, butfar enough away that they won’t turn into radioactivedust,” says Dee. “I’m sure, with a little practice, we couldget the cows aimed just right.”

“I heard the Israelis nuked the angels. Blew themright out of the sky,” says Dum.

“That’s a lie,” says Dee. “No one would blow uptheir entire country in the hope that a few angels might bein the air when you did it. It’s just not responsible nukebehavior.”

“Unlike nuclear cow missiles,” says Dum.“Exactly.”“Besides,” says Dum. “They might turn into

radioactive anti-superheroes for all we know. Maybethey’d just absorb the radioactivity and shoot it back atus.”

“They’re not superheroes, you idiot,” says Dee.“They’re just people who can, you know, fly. They’llexplode into smithereens just like anybody else.”

“Then how come there are no angel bodies here?”asks Dum. We stand in the middle of the debris, looking atthe hole that goes down into what used to be the basement.

Broken human bodies lie scattered across the debrisbut none of them have wings.

The wind picks up, pelting us with cold drizzle.“They couldn’t just have been injured, not with that

many bullets and the building collapsing,” says one of theguys who came in another car. “Could they?”

We all look at each other, not wanting to say whatwe’re thinking.

“They took some bodies away,” says Dee.“Yeah,” says Dum, “but they could just be

unconscious for all we know.”“There’s got to be a dead angel around here,” says

Dee, lifting a concrete chunk and looking beneath it.“Agreed. There has to be something.”But there isn’t.

IN THE END, the only thing we bring back is what’sleft of the few dead scorpions that we found scatteredbeneath the rubble, and their one surviving victim, Clara.

When we park in front of the school, Sanjay walkswith her, quietly asking her questions. I don’t have to askher anything to know that she just wants to find herhusband and kids. Everyone who sees her moves away,looking like they think she’s contagious.

When I get back to our history class, the stench ofrotten eggs hits me as soon as I open the door. Thewindowsills are lined with cartons of old eggs. Somehow,my mother has managed to find a stash of them.

Mom is out. I don’t know what she’s doing or whereshe is but that’s pretty normal for us.

Paige sits on her cot with her head down so that her

hair covers her stitches, and I can almost pretend not tosee them. Her hair is as shiny and healthy as any seven-year-old’s. She’s in a flower-print dress, tights, and pinkhigh-top sneakers that dangle over the edge of the cot.

“Where’s Mom?”Paige shakes her head. She hasn’t said much since we

found her.On a chair beside her cot is a bowl of chicken soup

with a spoon sitting in it. Looks like Mom hasn’t had muchluck feeding her. When was the last time Paige ate? I pickup the bowl and sit on the chair.

Lifting a spoonful of soup, I move it toward her. ButPaige won’t open her mouth.

“Aaand the train goes into the tunnel.” I give her alittle clown smile as I push the spoon toward her mouth.“Choo-choo!” It used to work when she was really little.

She peeks up at me and tries to smile. She stops whenthe stitches begin to crinkle.

“Come on, it’s delicious.” There is meat in it. I hadlaid down the law and declared that Paige could no longerbe a vegetarian as soon as we started having troublefinding food. Maybe that’s what keeps her from trying thesoup?

Maybe not.Paige shakes her head. She’s no longer throwing up,

but she’s no longer trying to eat either.I put the spoon down into the bowl. “What happened

when you were with the angels?” I ask as gently as I can.“Can you talk about it?”

She looks at the floor. A tear sparkles on her lashes.I know she can talk because she’s called me “Ryn-

Ryn” like she used to when she was little, and “Mom” or“Mommy.” And “hungry.” She’s said that several times.

“It’s just us. Nobody else is listening. Do you want totell me what happened?”

She shakes her head slowly, looking at her feet. Atear drops onto her dress.

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about that right now.We’ll never talk about it if you don’t want to.” I set thebowl on the floor. “But do you know what you can eat?”

She shakes her head again. “Hungry.” The whisper isso quiet that I barely hear it. Her lips hardly open to talk,but I can still catch a glimpse of her razor teeth.

My insides churn. “Can you tell me what you’rehungry for?” A part of me desperately wants to know theanswer. But the rest of me dreads what she might say.

She hesitates before she shakes her head “no” again.My hand comes up without me thinking about it. I’m

about to stroke her hair like I’ve always done. She looksup at me, and her hair falls away from her stitches.

Crude, uneven stitches crisscross her face. Thestitches that run between her lips and ears give her aforced grin that cuts her face. Red, black, and bruised, theyscream for attention. They run down her neck and into her

dress. I wish there wasn’t one cutting across her neck likethey’d sewn her head onto her body.

My hand hesitates over her head, almost touching herhair but not quite.

Then I drop it back to my side.I turn away from Paige.A pile of clothes sits on my mother’s cot. I dig

through for jeans and a jersey. Mom didn’t bother rippingoff the tags, but she has already sewn a yellow starburst onthe bottom of the pant leg for protection from theboogeyman. I don’t care so long as it’s dry and doesn’tsmell too badly of rotten eggs.

I change out of my wet clothes. “I’m going to see if Ican find something else for you to eat. I’ll be back soon,okay?”

Paige nods, looking at the floor again.I leave, wishing I had a dry jacket to cover my

sword. I consider wearing the wet one but decide againstit.

The school sits on a prime corner with a groveowned by Stanford University across one street and ahigh-end strip mall across another. I wander over to theshops.

My dad always said there was a lot of money in thisarea and even the strip malls show it. Back in the day, inthe World Before, you could see Steve Jobs, founder ofApple, eating breakfast here while he was still a living

resident of Silicon Valley. Or catch Mark Zuckerberg,founder of Facebook, grabbing a bite with his friends.

They all looked like middle managers to me but mydad was into all that. Technocrats, he called them. I’mpretty sure I saw Zuckerberg digging the latrine ditchbeside Raffe at the camp a few days ago. I guess a billiondollars doesn’t buy much respect in the World After.

I skitter from car to car as if I’m just a randomsurvivor on the street. The parking lot and walkways aremostly deserted, but inside the shops, people mill about.Some are picking out clothes. This is probably as good aplace as any to find a jacket, but food comes first.

The signs of burger joints, burrito places, and juiceshops make my mouth water. There was a time when Icould walk into any of these and order food. Hard tobelieve.

I head for the supermarket. There’s a line inside,where people can’t be seen from above. I haven’t been ina market since the early days of the attack.

Some stores had their shelves emptied by panickedpeople, while others shut down completely so no onecould get in. The established gangs from the World Beforetook over stores as early as the day after the Great Attackwhen it became clear that nothing was certain.

The bloody feather hanging on the door tells me thatthis supermarket is gang-owned. But by the looks of all thepeople in here, the gang is either generous enough to share

with the rest of us, or they lost some kind of fight with theResistance.

The bloody palm prints smeared on the front doorglass make me think that the gang was none too happyabout giving up their treasures.

Inside, Resistance personnel give out small amountsof food. A handful of crackers, a scoopful of nuts, instantpasta. There are almost as many soldiers in here as therewere during the aerie attack. They stand guard by the foodtables with their rifles plainly in sight.

“This is all you get, folks,” says one food worker.“Hang in there and we’ll be able to start making mealssoon. This is just to keep you going until we get thekitchens fired.”

A soldier yells out, “One package per family! Noexceptions!”

I guess no one has told them about the food deliveryin Obi’s headquarters. I look around and scope out thesituation.

There are kids my age, but I don’t recognize any ofthem. Even though a lot of them are as tall as adults, theydon’t stray far from their parents. Some of the girls aretucked under the arms of their moms or dads like littlekids. They seem safe and secure, protected and loved,looking like they belong.

I wonder what that’s like? Is it as good as it looksfrom the outside?

I realize that I’m cradling my elbows like I’m huggingmyself. I relax my arms and stand tall. Body language saysa lot about your place in the world, and the last thing Ineed is to look vulnerable.

I notice something else. A lot of people are looking atme, the lone teen girl in line. I’ve been told I look youngerthan seventeen, probably because I’m small.

There are big guys carrying hammers and bats whoI’m sure would prefer to carry a sword like the one on myback. A gun would be better but guns can be tricky tosteal, and at this stage of the game, only burly men seem tohave them.

I watch the men watching me, and I know that there isno such thing as a safe harbor in the World After.

For no reason, Raffe’s chiseled face pops into mymind. He has an unnerving habit of doing that.

By the time I get to the front of the line, I’m prettyhungry. I hate to think of how Paige must be feeling. Ireach the distribution table and put out my hand, but theguy takes one look at me and shakes his head.

“One package per family, sorry. Your mom alreadycame by.”

“Oh.” Ah, the joys of fame and misfortune. We’reprobably the only family who is recognized by half thepeople in the camp.

The guy looks at me like he’s heard it all—anyexcuse to get more food out of him has already been tried.

“We have rotten eggs in the back if you want morecartons.”

Great.“Did she just take rotten eggs or was there some real

food in there too?”“I made sure she got some real food.”“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I turn away. I can feel

the weight of eyes watching me walk alone toward thedarkening parking lot. I didn’t realize how late it wasgetting.

On the edge of my vision, I see a man nodding toanother, who then signals to another guy.

They’re all big and carrying weapons. One has a batacross his shoulder. Another has hammer handles stickingout of his jacket pockets. The third has a large kitchenknife stuck into his belt.

They slip out casually behind me.

I HAD planned to shop for a jacket, but no way am Igoing into an enclosed space at dusk with these goonsbehind me.

I head for the open parking lot, ducking from car tocar as we were instructed to do.

The guys behind me do the same.My World After instincts scream at me to break into

a run. My primal self knows I’m being stalked and hunted.But my World Before brain tells me they haven’t

done anything threatening. They’re only walking behindme, and where else would they go except to the schoolacross the street?

I’m back in a semi-organized group of people. I can’tbehave like a savage, like I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.

Right.

I break into a sprint.So do the guys behind me.Their feet slap faster and closer to me with every

stride I take.Their legs are longer and stronger than mine. It’s just

a matter of seconds before they’ll be on me. My center ofgravity is way lower than theirs so I can zigzag likenobody’s business, but that’ll only buy me a few moreseconds.

I run by several people who crouch behind cars ontheir way back to the school. None of them looks willingto help.

The standard advice against muggers is to toss awaywhatever they’re after and run like hell because yoursafety is worth so much more than your purse. That’s a no-brainer. Except they’re either after me or Raffe’s sword. Ican’t give up either of those.

My adrenaline is pumping and fear is screaming atme. But my training kicks in and I automatically runthrough my options.

I could scream. Obi’s men would be out here in asecond. But so might the angels if there are any withinhearing distance. There’s a reason why we need to bequiet and stay out of sight. I’d be putting everyone at riskby screaming, and the soldiers might shoot all of us withtheir silencer-enhanced guns to shut me up.

I could run into Obi’s building. But it’s too far away.

I could stop and fight. But my chances are pretty pooragainst three men with weapons.

I don’t like any of my options.I run as fast and as far as I can go. My lungs burn and

I’m getting a stitch in my side, but the closer I can get toObi’s building, the better the chance that Obi’s men willsee us and stop the attackers.

When my back prickles, telling me they’re getting tooclose, I turn around and pull out my sword.

Damn, I sure wish I knew how to use it.The men skid to a stop and fan out around me.One lifts his bat to striking position. Another pulls

out two hammers from his coat pockets. The third pulls outthe kitchen knife from his belt.

I am so screwed.People pause to watch—a few faces through the

windows, a mother and child at an open doorway, anolder couple under an awning.

“Get Obi’s men,” I whisper-shout to the couple.They grip each other tightly and hide behind a post.I hold out my sword like a light saber. It’s about the

only sword knowledge I have. I’ve trained with knives,but a sword is a whole other animal. I guess I couldbludgeon them with it like a bat. Or maybe if I throw it atthem, I might get a chance to run.

But there’s a gleam in their eyes that tells me thisisn’t just about getting a pretty weapon off an easy target.

I start shifting to the side to line them up in a row sothey’ll get in each other’s way if they rush me all at once.But before I can position myself, one of the guys throws ahammer at me.

I duck.They pounce.Then everything happens so fast I can barely absorb

what’s going on.I don’t have room to swing so I ram one of the

attackers with the sword’s hilt. I feel the crunch of his ribsas he goes down.

I try to swing the blade at the other men but handsgrab me and shove me off balance. I brace for a major hit,hopefully from the bat and not the hammer.

Just my luck, both weapons go up together, one ineach man’s hand. The bat and the hammer are blackcutouts against the twilight sky in that heartbeat momentbefore they come down for a smashing blow.

A growling blur crashes into the men, knocking themboth to the ground.

One of them gapes down at himself. Blood seepsacross his shirt. He looks around bewildered.

All our eyes land on the crouching, growling thing inthe shadows that looks like it’s about to pounce again.

When the thing steps out of the dark, I see the familiarflower-print dress, tights, and pink sneakers of my sister.

A zip-up hoodie hangs off her shoulders and her hair

streaks down her face, giving glimpses of her angrystitches and razor teeth. Paige stalks around the men like ahyena, bent almost on all fours.

“What the hell,” says one of the attackers from theground, crab-crawling backwards.

It’s freaking me out to see her like this. With all theslashes on her face and the metal shining on her teeth, shelooks like a nightmare come to life, one I should berunning from. I can tell the others think so too.

“Shh,” I say hesitantly reaching out toward Paige.“It’s okay.”

She growls a low guttural sound. She’s about topounce on one of the guys.

“Easy, kiddo,” I say. “I’m fine. Let’s just get out ofhere, okay?”

She doesn’t even look at me. Her lip twitches as sheeyes her prey.

There are too many people watching.“Paige, put on your hood,” I whisper. I don’t care

what the attackers think, but I worry about the stories thespectators might spread.

To my surprise, Paige pulls up her hood. Some of thetension eases from my muscles. She’s aware and listeningto me.

“It’s okay,” I whisper inching toward her, fighting myinstincts to run from her. “These bad men are going to goaway and leave us alone.”

The men get up, never taking their eyes off Paige.“Get that freak away from me,” says one. “That thing’s nothuman.”

My mother has snuck up on the attackers without anyof us noticing. “She’s more human than you could everbe.”

She shoves her cattle prod into his ribs. He jerksaway from her with a muffled yelp.

“She’s more human than any of us.” Mom has a wayof whispering that gives the impression of yelling.

“That thing needs to be put down,” says the guy whowas holding the bat.

“You need to be put down,” says my mother,approaching him with her prod.

“Get the hell away from me.” Without his bat and hisbuddies backing him up, he looks like a regular-sized guywith less than regular courage.

My mom jabs her prod at him, zapping it in the air.He jumps back, narrowly escaping. “You’re all

goddamn crazy.” He turns and runs.My mother runs after him as he scurries into a

building.That dude is not going to have a good evening.I sheath my sword with hands trembling from the

post-fight adrenaline. “Come on, Paige. Let’s go inside.”Paige walks ahead of me. With her hood up, she

looks like a docile little girl. But the couple under the

awning isn’t fooled. They saw what happened and theystare at Paige with wide eyes, terrified. I wonder howmany others are doing the same?

I almost put my hand on her shoulder but can’t quitedo it. I let my hand drop without touching her.

We walk into our building with the weight ofwatching eyes on our backs.

THAT NIGHT I have a bizarre dream.I’m in a village made of clay huts with thatched

roofs. There’s a huge bonfire that lights up the night andeveryone is eating, drinking, and running around incostumes. Music shrieks and people gyrate around the fire,throwing things into it.

All the hallmarks of a festivity are here but thepeople are too alert. They steal glances behind themselvesinto the darkness, and there are only a few shrill laughs.The big bonfire throws long shadows against the hillsidethat shift and twist like sinister beings.

Maybe I’m getting spooked because people are inmonster costumes that are a little too organic for my taste.There’s no rubber and plastic to remind me that it’s just acostume. These people are wearing pelts, animal heads,

and claws that look too real for comfort.Raffe is nearby in the shadows, standing tall with his

snowy wings halfway open. It’s breathtaking to see hisbroad shoulders and muscular arms haloed by his ownwings. It makes me sad to know that outside of this dream,he doesn’t have them anymore.

The villagers look at him, especially when they walkby, but their glances are not shocked and fearful like I’dexpect. They act as if they’re used to seeing angels anddon’t pay him much attention. At least the men don’t.

The women, on the other hand, are gathering aroundhim. Somehow, I’m not too surprised.

The women wear dark dresses that look like stagecurtains. Their faces are made up with black circlesaround their eyes and bloody red lips. One has devils’horns. Some have claws attached to their hands. Otherswear goatskins complete with hooves and horns, andmakeup to match.

They look bizarrely barbaric, and the shifting light ofthe fire adds to their savage appearance. Despite hiswings, Raffe is the only one who looks “normal.”

Weirdly, my dream mind picks up on some of Raffe’sthoughts. I see humans the way he sees them, alien andbestial. Compared to the perfection of angels, theseDaughters of Men are ugly and smell like pigs. He tries toimagine what his Watchers could possibly have seen inthem. He can’t see anything worth risking a minor

reprimand for, much less the Pit.Even if he could get past their looks and behavior,

they’re wingless. How could his angels stomach that?“Where are our husbands?” asks one of the women.

She speaks a guttural language I wouldn’t normallyunderstand except that, in my dream, I do.

“They’ve been condemned to the Pit for marryingDaughters of Men.” His voice is controlled but there’s anundertone of anger. They had been his best warriors andgood friends.

The women begin crying. “For how long?”“Until Judgment Day when they’ll finally get their

trial. You won’t see them again.”The women cry in each other’s arms.“What about our children?”Raffe stays silent. How does one tell a mother that

he’s here to hunt and kill her babies? He came to earth tospare his Watchers the pain of having to hunt down theirown children. Even if they were nephilim—monsters whoeat human flesh—what kind of twisted punishment is thatfor a father? He couldn’t allow it, not for his soldiers.

“Are you here to punish us?”“I’m here to protect you.” He wasn’t planning to

protect the wives. But the Watchers begged him. Begged.He couldn’t fathom the idea of his fiercest warriorsbegging for anything, much less for Daughters of Men.

“From what?”

“The Watchers’ wives have been given to thehellions. They’ll be coming for you tonight. We need to getyou someplace safe. Let’s go.”

I look around at all the costumes and the bonfire andrealize that this must be some ancient version ofHalloween when monsters and demons supposedlyroamed the streets. They’ll be coming in force tonight.

The women clutch at each other in fright.“I told you to stay out of the business of gods and

angels,” says a gray-haired woman who holds a youngerwoman protectively. She’s dressed in a lamb’s skin,complete with the head that drapes over her forehead. Ithas fangs attached to it like some kind of saber-toothedbeast.

Raffe begins walking away from the village. “Eithercome with me or stay. I can only help those who want tobe helped.”

The older woman pushes her daughter toward Raffe.The others follow, huddling together and rushing to keepup like some weird menagerie.

Music builds near the bonfire as we walk away fromit. The tempo speeds up and the beat throbs until thewomen’s breathing matches it.

Just as I think the crescendo will crest, the musicstops.

A baby cries into the night.Then it suddenly stops in the middle of a wail. It ends

too abruptly to be natural, and the sharp silence makes thehair on my arms curl.

A woman cries out brokenheartedly. There’s nosurprise to it, just pain and mourning.

It makes me want to both run to the fire to see if thebaby is all right and to run away from these barbaricvillagers. They seem mostly unsurprised and unaffected bywhatever is happening near the fire, as if this is part oftheir normal ritual.

I want to tell Raffe that we’re not all like thesepeople. That I’m not like these people. But I’m just a ghostin my own dream.

Raffe quietly pulls out his sword, on full alert.They’re coming.Just as the music begins again, this time accompanied

by chanting, Raffe spins to look behind him.The hillside slithers with shadows.

CROUCHED AND LOPING. Stunted blackwings. The shapes of emaciated men.

I don’t know what they are, but my primal brainrecognizes them, because even in my dream, my heartspeeds up and my instincts whisper run, run, run.

The shadows leap toward us.Two of them land on a woman, knocking her down.

They claw at her. She begs Raffe with her terrified eyes.One of his warriors loved this Daughter of Man.

Gave up his whole life for her. Worried over her even ashe was being condemned to the Pit. The why of it isbeyond Raffe’s comprehension, but that doesn’t stop hiscompassion from blooming.

Raffe kicks off a hellion that lands on him and swingshis sword at the demons attacking the woman.

Then a strange thing happens.Strange even for this dream.Raffe goes into slow motion.And so does everything else—except for me.I’ve never had a slow-mo dream before. I can see

almost every muscle as Raffe shifts his sword and cutsinto the hellions that are clawing at the fallen woman.

As one screeches its death cry, I get a decent look. Ithas a bat-like face, squished and wrinkled, with sharpfangs. Pretty damn ugly if you ask me.

I’m about to put up my hand instinctively to block theslow-mo blood coming my way, when I realize thatRaffe’s sword is also in my hands even though he isalready using it.

Every detail of Raffe slicing the demons as theyattack is clear. In slow motion, I can absorb his stance, theshifting of his weight, the way he holds the sword.

When he cuts a swath through the wave of monsters,that part of the dream stops. Then the sequence repeats.

This is like an instructional video of the organic kind.I must have been seriously frustrated by my lack of

sword-fighting skills to make all this up. My dream headhurts just thinking about it.

I put my sword up, mimicking Raffe’s stance. Whynot? He is a master swordsman, and it’s possible that mysubconscious picked up details when I saw him fight inreal life that my waking brain didn’t. I try to swing,

mimicking Raffe. But I must be doing it wrong because hisswing repeats.

I try it again. Raffe completes his swing, rolls thesword, and swings back to complete a figure eight.

I do the same.Slice to the left, swing up and around, slice to the

right and back up and around. He does this a couple oftimes and then switches his tactic and stabs. Probably nota bad idea to make sure your moves aren’t predictable.

The sword adjusts itself here and there to improvemy technique. It practically works itself, letting meconcentrate on Raffe’s footwork. I’ve learned throughyears in various self-defense training that footwork is asimportant as what the arms and hands do.

He glides forward and back like a dancer, nevercrossing his feet. I mimic his dance.

Sinewy arms burst through the ground, sprayingslow-motion dirt everywhere to grab the women. Theypull themselves out of the soil, tearing up the earth andspitting it out of their mouths as they climb up.

Some of the women panic and run into the night.“Stay with me!” Raffe yells.But it’s too late. The hellions pounce on them and

their screams intensify.Raffe grabs the nearest woman as she’s being pulled

into the ground by demonic hands. The sharp claws hookonto her flesh as she thrashes in slow-motion panic.

Raffe pulls her up out of the dirt, simultaneouslyswinging his sword while cutting and kicking at themonsters.

This is the way a hero fights.I copy him, motion by motion, wishing I could help.We fight, Raffe and I, all through the night.

I WAKE up trembling in the dark in that quiet timebefore sunrise. This dream was so vivid that it’s as if Iwas physically there. It takes a few minutes before myheart rate slows back to normal and my adrenalinedissipates.

I shift so my sword’s cross-guard isn’t poking intomy ribs under the blanket. I lie listening to the wind,wondering where Raffe is now.

SHE HASN’T eaten in three days.My sister has drunk some water but that’s about all

she’s managed to hold down. Mom and I coaxed her intoswallowing a couple of spoonfuls of venison stew but shegagged that right up. We’ve tried everything from broth tovegetables. She can’t hold any of it down.

Mom is deeply worried. So much so that she’s hardlyleft Paige’s side since we found her in the basement lab ofthe aerie. Paige’s skin is corpse white. It’s as if all herblood drained through the red-stained holes of the unevenstitches.

“Look at her eyes,” says my mother, as though sheunderstands that Paige’s otherness dominates when I lookat her now.

But I can’t. I keep staring at her stitches while I offer

her some cornbread. The cut on her cheek is crooked, as ifthe surgeon couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.

“Look at her eyes,” Mom says again.I force myself to raise my eyes. My sister does me the

favor of looking away.It is not the eye motion of a beast. That would be too

easy. It is the downcast look of a second grader who is alltoo familiar with rejection. That’s the look she used to getwhen other kids pointed at her as she wheeled by in herwheelchair.

I could kick myself. I force myself to look at her butshe won’t meet my eyes. “Do you want some cornbread? Igot it fresh from the oven.”

She gives the slightest shake of her head. There’snothing sullen about it, just sadness, as if she’s wonderingif I’m mad at her or think bad thoughts about her.Somewhere behind her stitches and bruises, I glimpse thelost lonely soul of my sister.

“She’s starving,” says Mom. Her shoulders areslumped, her posture dejected. My mother is not exactly aglass-half-full kind of person. But I haven’t seen herfeeling this hopeless since Paige’s accident when she lostthe use of her legs.

“Do you think you can eat some raw meat?” I hateasking this. I’ve gotten so used to her being a strictvegetarian that it seems like I’m giving up on the idea ofPaige being Paige.

She steals a glance at me. There’s guilt and shyness.But there’s eagerness too. She looks down again as ifashamed. Her gulp is unmistakable. Her mouth is wateringat the thought of raw meat.

“I’m going to see if I can find some for her.” I put onmy sword.

“You do that,” says Mom. Her voice is flat and dead.I walk out, determined to find something that Paige

can eat.The cafeteria has a line like it always does. I need to

come up with a story that convinces the kitchen workersthat they should give me raw meat. I can’t think of a singlereason. Even a dog will eat cooked meat.

So I reluctantly turn away from the food line and headfor the grove across El Camino Real. I brace myself to gocave woman and hope I can catch a squirrel or rabbit. Ofcourse, I have no idea what I’ll do with it if I catch it.

In my still-civilized mind, meat comes as packagedfood in the refrigerator. But if I’m lucky, I’ll find out upclose and personal why Paige decided to go vegetarianwhen she was three years old.

On my way to the grove, I take a detour to do a littleshopping first. Joking around with Dee-Dum the other daygot me thinking. Guys want a weapon. A badass killingmachine whose primary job is to intimidate when youwave it around. But if the same sharp sword wasdisguised as a cutesy cuddly toy, then the big bad men

might look elsewhere for a weapon to steal.I’m in luck. There’s a toyshop in the strip mall. The

second I walk into the colorful store full of giant blocksand rainbow kites, I get a tug of nostalgia. I just want tohide in the play corner, surround myself with soft stuffedanimals, and read picture books.

My mother has never been normal, but she was betterwhen I was little. I remember running around in playcorners like this, singing songs with her or sitting on herlap while she read to me. I run my hands over the softplush of the panda bears and the smooth plastic of the toytrains, remembering what it was like when bears, trains,and moms made me feel safe.

It takes me a while to figure out what to do. I finallydecide to slice the bottom of a teddy bear and jam it ontothe hilt. I’ll just have to pull off the bear if I need to usethe sword.

“Come on, admit it, Pooky Bear,” I say to the sword.“You love your new look. All the other swords will bejealous.”

By the time I cross the street to the grove, my teddybear is wearing a multi-layered chiffon skirt made of awedding veil that I found in one of the boutiques. I tintedthe veil in the bathroom with the stained water of newclothes so that it no longer has that bridal white meant toattract the eye. The skirt falls just below the end of thescabbard, hiding it entirely—or it will when it dries. The

backside is split open so that I can yank the bear and skirtoff without having to think about it.

It looks ridiculous and says all kinds of embarrassingthings about me. But one thing it doesn’t say is killer angelsword. Good enough.

I weave across the street and scale the chest-highfence that surrounds the grove. This area feels open, butthere are enough trees to give dappled shade from the lateafternoon sun. A perfect place for rabbits.

I pull off the stuffed bear, satisfied when it comes offso fast. I stand on the overgrown grass with the angelsword pointed like a divining rod. A certain angel, whoshall remain nameless because I’m trying to stop thinkingabout him, told me that this little sword is not an ordinarysword. There’s enough weirdness in my life as it is butsometimes, you just have to go with it.

“Find a rabbit.”A squirrel clinging onto the side of a tree laughs in a

series of chirps.“It’s not funny.” In fact, it’s as serious as can be.

Raw animal meat is my best hope for Paige. I don’t evenwant to think about what will happen if she can’t eat that.

I charge the squirrel, my arms loose and ready to beadjusted by the sword. The squirrel takes off.

“Sorry, squirrel. One more thing to blame on theangels.” An image of Raffe’s face comes to mind—a haloof flames around his hair, showing lines of grief on his

shadowed face. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he’s inpain. Adjusting to new wings must be like adjusting tonew legs: painful, lonely, and during war, dangerous.

I heave the sword above my head. I can’t look and Ican’t not look, so I do a weird combination of turning myhead and squinting while looking just enough to be able toaim.

I swing the sword down.The world suddenly tilts, making me dizzy.My stomach lurches.My vision falters and flashes.One second, the sword is coming down on the

squirrel.The next second, the sword is being held up to an

azure sky.The fist that’s holding it is Raffe’s. And the sky is not

my sky.He hovers at the head of an army of angels who stand

below him in formation. His glorious wings, white andwhole, frame his body, making it look like a statue of aGreek warrior god.

RAFFE RAISES his sword into the air. The legionof angels lift their swords in response. A war cry goes upas row after row of winged men take flight.

It’s a breathtaking sight to see so many angels lift information. The legion flies to battle, led by Raffe.

There’s a whisper of a concept in my head.Glory.Then, as quick as a heartbeat, the blue sky and

winged men disappear.We’re in a field at night.A horde of scary-as-all-hell, bat-faced demons rush

at me like an avalanche, screeching a hellish cry. Raffesteps ahead and starts swinging his sword with perfectprecision, just like in my dreams.

Fighting beside him and protecting his back are angel

warriors, some of whom I’ve seen before at the old aerie.They’re joking and egging each other on as they fight anddefend each other from the monsters of the night.

Another concept echoes in my head.Victory.The scene changes again and we’re in the sky, only

this time it’s in the middle of a lightning storm. Thunderrumbles through the dark clouds and lightning lights up thescene in stark contrasts. Raffe and a small group ofwarriors hover in the rain, watching another group ofangels get dragged away in chains.

The prisoners fly with spiked shackles around theirwrists, ankles, neck and head. The spikes are on the insideso they’re driven into their flesh. Blood washes away withthe rain in jagged rivulets down their faces, hands, andfeet.

A squat, bat-faced demon with bat wings rides on theshoulders of each prisoner. The demons hold the chains tothe collar, using it as a bridle. They jerk the chains onedirection, then another, cruelly driving the spikes in andmaking them fly like drunks. More hellions hang off someof the ankle and wrist shackles that bind the prisoners toeach other.

Some of these angels had fought beside Raffe in thefield. They had laughed with him and protected his back.Now, they watch him with excruciating pain in their eyesas they’re driven like tortured cattle.

The other angels watch with immense sadness, somewith their heads bowed. But Raffe is the only one whoflies out of the group, brushing hands with a few of theprisoners on his way down toward earth.

As the scene fades, another word takes shape in myhead.

Honor.And then, I’m standing under the trees again in

Stanford’s grove.My stomach lurches as I finish my swing and smash

the blade into the ground where the squirrel stood asecond ago. My hands are clenched so tightly around thehilt that my knuckles feel like they might split.

The squirrel has scampered into a tree and iswatching me. It looks puny and insignificant after thethings I’ve just seen.

I let go of the sword and land on my butt.I don’t know how long I sit there panting, but I

suspect it’s a long time. There’s nothing but the blueOctober sky, the smell of grass, and the unusual quietthat’s been everywhere since people abandoned cars.

Could the sword be communicating with me? Sendingme the message that it was made for epic battles and glory,not for chasing squirrels and being dressed up as a cutesystuffed animal?

Of course, that’s crazy talk.But no crazier than what I just saw.

I want to bury my train of thought. Anything thatsmells remotely insane is a scent I don’t want to follow.But I let myself do it just this once.

Raffe said the sword was sort of sentient. If by sometruly bizarre chance that’s true, then maybe it has feelings.Maybe it has memories that it can share with me.

On the night those men attacked me, did it getfrustrated that I had no idea how to use it during the fight?Is it embarrassing for a sword to be wielded by someonewho swings it like a bat? Was it actually trying to teachme how to use it through my dreams?

The thing freaks me out. I should switch over to a gunor something that’s a little less invasive and has feweropinions. I actually get up, turn my back on it, and take acouple of steps away.

But of course, I can’t leave it.It’s Raffe’s sword. He’s going to want it back

someday.

ON MY way back, I hesitate near the food line.It’s a new group of people but the line is about the samelength. The Resistance is setting up a system that includeslimiting food to two meals a day. But while that’s gettingset up, the newcomers are still hoarding and spending agood deal of their time standing in the food line.

I sigh and go to the back of the line.

When I get back to our room, it’s empty. I’m not sureit’s a good idea for Paige to be out in public but I assumethey’ll be back soon. I put three burgers on the teacher’sdesk. I didn’t ask what kind of meat it was but I doubt it’scow.

I had asked for the patties to be super rare,specifically mentioning the word “bloody,” thinking that’sas close as I could get to raw without raising suspicions.But I’m disappointed to find that the meat’s hardly pink inthe middle.

I cut away the cooked portion from the pink centerand set it aside for Paige. I can at least try to see if she canhold down pink meat. I try not to think too much about it.

I suspect she hadn’t been out of the lab in her newform before we found her, otherwise, she’d know whatshe could eat. If I had found her a day earlier, could I havesaved her from this?

I shut away those thoughts in the old mind vault andmethodically eat my burger. The lettuce and tomato arereconstituted from something that’s probably not what it’spretending to be, but it reminds me of greens and that’sgood enough. The bread, though, is fresh out of the ovenand delicious. The camp lucked out and found somebodywho knows how to bake bread from scratch.

I pull out Raffe’s sword and put the naked blade onmy lap. I stroke my fingers along the metal. The light hitsthe liquid folds along the steel, showing the bluish-silver

waves that decorate it.If I relax, I can feel the faint flow of sorrow coming

from it. The sword is in mourning. It doesn’t take a geniusto figure out who it’s mourning for.

“Show me more,” I say, even though I’m not sure Ican handle more right now. My knees are already weakand I’m feeling drained. Even in a world where angelsexist, it’s still a shocker to have one of your possessionsshare its memories with you.

“Tell me about Raffe.”Nothing.“Okay. Let’s practice fighting,” I say in an

enthusiastic voice as if I’m talking to a little kid. “I coulduse more lessons.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.Nothing.“Right. Well, I guess I have nothing better to do now

than to decorate the teddy bear with ribbons and bows.What do you think of dusky pink?”

The room wavers, then morphs.

TIME HAS a way of being funny in dreams and I’mguessing it’s the same with memories. For what feels likea decade, I practice with my sword, fighting enemy afterenemy by Raffe’s side.

The hellions must have been furious that he snatchedsome of the wives from their jaws and took what theythought belonged to them. They’ve been tracking him downever since, hunting anyone who might have been acompanion to him. I’m guessing that demons aren’t thetype to forgive and forget.

Era after era throughout the world, it’s the sameeverywhere. Medieval villages, World War I battlefields,Buddhist monasteries in Tibet, speakeasies in Chicago.Raffe follows rumors of the nephilim, kills hellions andanything else that terrorize the locals, then disappears into

the night. He flies away from anybody he might haveconnected with in the process to avoid getting them killed.

Alone.Just Raffe and his sword.And now he doesn’t even have that.Just when I think the lessons are over, the sword’s

memory flips to a situation that almost breaks me.As soon as I arrive, I’m slammed with the intensity of

it.Raffe roars with outrage and agony.He’s in serious trouble. The pain is excruciating. The

shock is worse.My phantom body sways as it loses its boundaries,

making me feel totally disoriented. Raffe’s experience isso intense, my own thoughts and sensations areoverwhelmed by his.

His ragged breathing is all I can hear. It’s all he canhear.

Hands and knees hold him down but blood makestheir hands slip over his skin. Raffe is drenched in his ownblood.

Pain radiates from his back through his entire body.Crushing his bones. Stabbing his eyes. Pummeling hislungs.

Blood spreads over asphalt.Large hands move something white into the corner of

his vision. He desperately doesn’t want to look but can’t

help himself.Wings.Snow-white wings.Severed and lying on the dirty road.His breathing becomes harsher, and all he can see are

those white feathers lying limp on the black asphalt.A drop of blood from someone’s hand drips onto a

feather. Beliel the demon stands over Raffe’s wings likehe owns them.

It dimly registers with Raffe that someone yells,“Hey!”

He forces himself to look up.His vision is blurred through the pain and sweat. He

blinks several times to try to focus beyond the screamingpain in his back.

It’s a skinny Daughter of Man, looking tiny besideone of his attackers. She’s half-hidden behind thewarrior’s burnt-orange wings, but Raffe sees her andknows she’s the one who yelled.

That’s me. Do I really look that insignificant besidean angel?

She throws something at him with all her little might.His sword? Could it be?He doesn’t have time to marvel. His sword would do

anything for him, even let a human bond with her to helphim.

A surge of fury lends him a shot of strength. He bursts

out of his attackers’ hold and raises his hand. His armtrembles with the effort.

His world shrinks down to his sword, Beliel, and theangels before him.

He catches the sword and in the same motion slicesthe demon Beliel in the stomach. Raffe almost loses hisbalance in the process.

He then manages to use his momentum to cut into theangel beside him.

The scene doesn’t slow down like the other fights. Itdoesn’t have to. I feel every trembling muscle, everystaggering step, every struggling breath.

He’s dizzy and barely managing to stay upright. Asthe attackers fly off, he sees the warrior with the burnt-orange wings smack the girl. She slams against the road,and Raffe thinks she must be dead.

Through the haze of agony, he wonders who she isand why a Daughter of Man would sacrifice herself tohelp him.

He forces himself to stay on his feet. It takeseverything he has to hold his sword ready as Burntassesses him. Raffe’s legs tremble violently and he’slosing consciousness, but he stays up out of sheerstubbornness and fury.

Burnt, obviously too cowardly to face him alone,gives up and flies off. Raffe collapses onto the asphalt assoon as Burnt leaves.

Lying on the road, the world blackens with onlyoccasional splotches of color. His breath fills his ears, buthe concentrates to hear sounds in the surrounding area.

Feet scuffle behind closed doors. Inside thebuildings, humans whisper and argue about whether it’ssafe to come out. They talk about how much Raffe wouldbe worth if they tore him to pieces.

But they’re not the ones who worry him. There aremore subtle scuffling, slithering noises. Soft clicking, likecockroaches in the walls.

They’re coming for him. The hellions have foundhim. They always do eventually.

But this time, they’re in luck. This time, he’s utterlyhelpless. They’ll be able to drag him down into hell andslowly torture him over the ages while he lies hopelessand wingless.

He desperately tries to stay alert, but the world meltsinto darkness.

Someone is calling out for her mother. The voice isstrong and determined.

It must be a fever dream because no one would bethat stupid in a place full of human gangs. But the footstepsin the building stairwells quiet. The human rats whisper,sure that the girl who calls out for her mom must have hergang nearby. What else would make a girl that bold?

The hellions stop their slithering too. They’re notsmart enough to figure out much, otherwise they would

have gotten to him ages ago by coordinating a real attackrather than just diving at random opportunities. They’reconfused. Attack or run?

He tries to pull himself away from the exposed road,but black spots bloom across his vision and he fades outagain.

Someone flips him over. Pain screams and claws intohis back.

A small hand slaps him.He opens his eyes for a moment.Against the glow of the sky, dark hair flutters in the

breeze. Intense eyes fringed with long lashes. Lips so redthe girl must have been biting them.

It takes him a moment to realize she’s the Daughter ofMan who risked herself to help him. She’s asking himsomething. Her voice is insistent but melodic. It’s a goodsound to die to.

He fades in and out as she moves him. He keepsexpecting her to cut him up or for the hellions to leap onher. Instead, she bandages him and lifts him into awheelchair that’s too small.

When the girl grunts and overacts to indicate that hemust be heavy—probably to show how strong she is—hecan’t help but be amused, even through the haze of pain.She’s a terrible actress. Daughters of Men are notoriouslydense and heavy compared to angels, and there’ssomething deliriously funny about her pretending.

Maybe his Watchers married their wives becausethey found them entertaining. Not much of a reason to becondemned to the Pit but it’s the first one he’s thought of.

Shoes slap on the sidewalk as human rats run towardRaffe. Emboldened by the rats, the hellions slither towardhim too.

He tries to warn the girl.But there’s no need. She’s already running into the

shadows, pushing him as fast as she can go. If she can stayahead of them long enough, the hellions will get distractedby the juicy human rats.

His last thought before he blacks out is that hisWatchers would have liked this girl.

THE SHADOWS through the windows are long bythe time I jerk awake. I’m still shaking from Raffe’sexperience. I didn’t just know what he was thinking; Iactually felt what he felt, thought what he thought.

Was the sword really that close to Raffe? Maybeonly in extremely intense times. The whole experiencewas bizarrely freaky at every level.

I run my trembling hand over the warm blade, tellingmy body that it’s okay.

I’m starting to put some pieces together. Some ofRaffe’s actions make more sense now.

He couldn’t jump in to help me during my publicfights at the last Resistance camp without rumorsspreading about us. The hellions always tracked him downeventually, and it was probably a combination of luck,

tracking, and listening to human gossip. A story about afight like that would definitely be talked about. He betagainst me to announce to everyone that we weren’tfriends, that he didn’t care what happened to me.

And he hunted down the low demons in the foresteven after they ran because they seemed like they camefrom hell, didn’t they? If any of them lived to tell abouthow he’d come to the rescue of a Daughter of Man, it’djust be a matter of time before they got to me.

But did he have to go as far as telling me he didn’teven like me after our kiss? That was totally unnecessary,in my opinion.

The kiss.Like a germinating seed, I have the growing impulse

to ask the sword about it.It’s silly and embarrassing and maybe even shallow

after what I just saw Raffe go through. But because ofwhat I just saw, I want to see him in a different kind ofmoment. One where he’s cocky and in control. One wherehe’s experiencing something other than threats and pain, ifonly for two seconds.

That, and I’m dying to know what he felt during ourkiss.

I know it doesn’t matter. I know it won’t changeanything. I know it’s juvenile.

Whatever.Can’t a girl be a girl for, like, five minutes?

“Show me your memories of the kiss.” I close myeyes. The heat creeps up my cheeks, which is sillybecause the sword was there when the kiss happened andsaw the whole thing. So what if I’m curious about what hefelt?

“Oh, come on. Do we have to do this again?”Nothing.“That last one was totally awful. I need a little

comfort. It’s just a small favor. Please?”Nothing.“Extra ribbons and bows for you,” I try to sound like

I mean it. “Maybe even sparkly makeup on the teddybear.”

Still nothing.“Traitor.” I know that’s a funny statement since the

sword is actually being loyal to Raffe but I don’t care.I slide it back into its scabbard, which has been

leaning against my chair, and jam the bear over the hilt.I slip the strap over my shoulder and step outside to

see if I can find Mom and Paige.The hallway is still crowded, as usual. Two identical

guys with blond hair are weaving through the tight space,saying hello to a bunch of people as they walk by. It seemslike everyone likes them. It takes me a second to realizethat it’s Dee and Dum. Their hair is now sandy blond.

Dee discretely shows Dum something in his palm,and Dum almost crosses his eyes trying to hold in a laugh.

I’m guessing Dee just pickpocketed someone forsomething the owner has probably already told them theycan’t have.

They wave to me and I wait for them.“What happened to your hair?” I ask.“We’re spy masters, remember?” says Dee.“As in masters of disguise,” says Dum.“Well,” says Dee rubbing dye off the edge of his

hairline, “ ‘master’ is kind of a strong word.”“So is ‘disguise,’ ” I say with a half grin.“Dude, you look great,” says Dum to Dee.

“Handsome as ever.”“What did you pickpocket?” I keep my voice down in

case the owner doesn’t have a sense of humor.“Ooh, you’re losing your touch, Bro. She saw.” Dum

looks around to see if anyone is listening.“No way. My touch is like butter.” Dee opens his

now empty palms and wiggles his fingers. “She’s justsmart, that’s all. She can figure things out.”

“Yeah, and that’s why we feel so bad about onlythinking of you as a candidate for fights, Penryn. Speakingof which, how do you feel about wearing a nun’s habit?”

“Better yet, hot librarian glasses.” Dee nods at melike he’s giving me a tip. “Turns out we have bothlibrarians and nuns here.”

“Does it get any better than that?” Dum’s eyes arewide with wonder.

They look at each other and simultaneously call out,“Librarian mud fights!” They shake their hands in the airlike excited little boys.

Everyone in the hallway looks over at us.“See? Look at the interest,” says Dee.But then the hallway clears as people pour out

through the door. Something is happening.“What’s going on?” I ask someone as he peers

outside.“No idea,” he says. He looks scared but excited.

“Just following the crowd to see what’s happening. Youtoo, huh?”

A woman brushes past us. “Someone’s been founddead or mangled or something.” She pushes through thedoors, letting cold air in.

Dead or mangled.I follow her.Outside, a small crowd full of tension hovers on the

walkway in front of the main building. The sun may below on the horizon but the overcast sky simply drains thecolor, painting everyone shades of gray.

People look across El Camino. On the other side isthe fenced grove where I chased the squirrel. During theday it’s beautiful and peaceful, with the trees spaced farenough apart to give the area dappled shade withoutdarkness. But as the light dims, the grove starts lookingsinister and foreboding.

A few people run straight from the building to thegrove, while others hesitate before walking there. Stillothers linger in hopes of safety near the building, whilesquinting to see what’s going on in the shadows beneaththe trees.

I pause to take in the situation, then join those whoare running to the grove. I can’t help but wonder whatdraws them there in the dimming light. Snatches ofconversation along the way clue me in.

I’m not the only one who worries about someone theylove. Lots of people got separated during the chaos of theangel invasion or the aerie attack. Now they’re franticallyworried that whoever is left in their family might havebeen hurt or killed. Others are just more curious thansmart, emboldened by being part of an organization full ofpeople with purpose, something they thought might neverhappen again.

In any case, there are enough of us to create a logjamat the fence. It’s a metal-framed wire fence that’s chesthigh to me and requires actual climbing. Since the fenceborders the grove for several blocks in either direction,there’s no choice but to scale it.

Under the trees, a small crowd gathers. I can feeltheir restlessness and hear the tension in their voices. Asense of urgency shoots through me. Something isseriously wrong here and I’m convinced it has somethingto do with my family.

I race to the crowd, shoving my way in.What I see is something I won’t be able to blot out of

my mind for as long as I live.

MY LITTLE SISTER struggles under theshadows.

Radiating out from her are ropes pulled by men. Onerope is tied around her neck, two others around her wrists,and two more around her ankles.

The men struggle against the ropes like they’reholding down a wild horse.

Paige’s hair is tangled and there’s blood in it.There’s also blood smeared across her face and stainingher flower-print dress. The contrast of the dark blood andthe stitches on her pale skin make her look as if she’s risenfrom the dead.

She struggles against the ropes like someonepossessed. She lurches when the men yank at her to try togain control. Even in this light, I can see the bloody

chafing of the ropes around her neck and wrists as she’sjerked around like a macabre voodoo puppet.

My first instinct is to screech like a banshee and pullout the sword.

But there’s something lying in front of Paige.The shock of seeing her so cruelly tied up like an

animal kept me from seeing the rest of the scene. But now Isee a shadowy lump, still as rock but shaped likesomething I wish I didn’t recognize.

It’s a body.It’s the guy who carried the bat when he and his

buddies attacked me.I look away. I don’t want to process what my eyes

just saw. I don’t want to register the chunks missing fromhim.

I don’t want to think about what that means.I can’t.Paige’s tongue flicks out and licks blood from her

lips.She closes her eyes and swallows. Her face relaxes

just for a second.Peace.She opens her eyes and looks at the body near her

feet. It’s like she can’t help it.A part of me still expects her to cringe in disgust at

the sight of the corpse. There is disgust there. But there’salso a flash of longing. Hunger.

She darts a glance at me. Shame.She stops struggling and looks right at me.She sees my hesitation. She sees I’m no longer

running to save her. She sees judgment in my eyes.“Ryn-Ryn,” she cries. Her voice is filled with loss.

Tears streak down her blood-smeared cheeks, leavingclear tracks. Her face shifts from looking like a fiercemonster to a scared little girl.

Paige starts thrashing again. My wrists, ankles, andneck hurt in sympathy as the ropes chafe against herbloody skin.

The men seesaw at the ends of the ropes so that it’shard to tell whether they have her captive or if she’sholding them. I’ve seen how strong her new body can be.She’s powerful enough to seriously challenge them andgive them a real fight. On this uneven terrain, she might beable to throw them off balance and make them fall.

Instead, she struggles ineffectively.Just enough to get the ropes to cut into her. Just

enough to hurt herself in punishment. Just enough so that noone else gets hurt.

My little sister cries in heartbroken sobs.I start running again. No matter what happened, she

doesn’t deserve this. No living creature deserves this.A soldier on my right raises his rifle and points it at

me. It’s so close I can look right into the dark hole of itssilencer.

I stop, almost skidding.Another man stands beside him, pointing a rifle at

Paige.I raise my open hands.Men grab my arms, and I can tell by their roughness

that they expect a major struggle. We Young girls aregetting a reputation.

The men relax when they see that I’m not about to putup a fight. Hand-to-hand is one thing but guns are beyondme. All I can do is stay alive until I get a chance to dosomething more proactive.

But my mother has her own logic.She runs out from the shadows, silent as a ghost.She jumps on the soldier pointing his rifle at Paige.The other soldier raises the butt of his rifle and

smacks Mom in the face.“No!” I kick the guy holding my arm. But before he

hits the ground and before I can get the other guy off me,three of them jump on me. They shove me to the groundlike experienced gang members before I get a chance tostabilize.

My mom puts up her hand to deflect another blow ofthe rifle butt.

My sister ramps up her struggling. This time, it’sfilled with panic and fury. She screeches into the air likeshe’s calling on the sky to come help her.

“Shut her up! Shut her up!” someone is whisper-

shouting.“Don’t shoot!” whisper-shouts Sanjay. “We need her

alive for study.” He has the decency to throw me a quick,guilty glance. I don’t know whether to be angry or grateful.

I have to help my family. My brain screams at meabout the guns, but what can I do? Lie here while theytorture and kill my baby sister and mother?

Three men hold me down. One grabs my arms abovemy head, another has my ankles, and the third sits on mystomach. Looks like no one’s underestimating me anymore. So be it.

I grasp the wrists of the guy holding my hands, usinghim as leverage, making sure he can’t get away.

I twist and pump my legs, scrape-kicking my ankleholder’s hand off my ankle. It’s hard for anyone, big ornot, to match the power of a kick with the grip of his hand.

Then I pull back my free leg and kick him full in theface.

With my legs free, I heave and wrap them around theneck of the guy sitting on my stomach.

I slam my legs toward the ground, jerking himbackwards. I yank my leg out from under him and kick athis open crotch.

I kick so hard he slides away from me on the grasswith a breathless scream. He won’t be any trouble for awhile.

By now, the guy holding my wrists has started to fight

my grip, trying to get away. If I thought he’d just run andlet me be, I’d be happy to let him go.

But there’s too much of a chance that he’ll get ideasabout tackling me while I’m down. Guys are sometimeslike that when it comes to losing a fight to a small female.They chalk it up to luck or something.

My hold on him is firm. Using him for leverage, Itwist and spin on my hip in what someone in my gym hasdescribed as looking like I’m running up a wall, only I’mdoing it while lying on the ground.

I swing my leg, pivoting on the side of my hip as Ikick the guy above me in the head.

I bet he wasn’t expecting that little move.I hop up, scanning the scene around me, ready for

another attack.My mom is on the ground, yanking a soldier by his

rifle. She grips the barrel while it’s pointed right at her.She either doesn’t realize that all he has to do is pull thetrigger to blow her away, or she doesn’t care.

My sister screeches into the sky like the monster theyall think she is. The veins on her neck and forehead stickout like they’re going to burst.

Two of the men holding her ropes are on the groundnow. A third one goes down as I watch.

I dive toward Mom, hoping the rifle doesn’t go offbefore I can do something.

Luckily, these soldiers are citizen soldiers, newly

minted and inexperienced. Hopefully, this one hasn’t shotanyone yet and isn’t willing to have a desperate mother behis first kill.

WITHOUT THINKING, we all look up. At first,I’m not even sure why I do it.

Then I realize that there’s a buzzing coming from thesky. So low that it’s barely audible.

But it’s growing louder.Through the gaps in the trees, I can see a dark blotch

in the twilight sky. It grows closer at an alarming rate.The buzzing stays low, just enough to feel it in your

bones rather than hear it. It’s an ominous sound, likesomething recognizable at a primal level, a deeply buriedunconscious fear turned into sound.

Before I can identify it, people turn and run.No one screams or shouts or calls out to anyone.

People just silently and desperately run.The panic is contagious. The men holding my mom let

go and join the stampede. Almost immediately after, theguys holding my sister release their ropes and run as well.

Paige pants, staring up at the sky. She looksmesmerized.

“Run!” I yell. That breaks her spell.My sister turns and runs the other direction, away

from the Resistance camp. She runs deeper into the grovewith her ropes trailing in the dirt like snakes slithering inthe shadows after her.

Mom glances at me. Blood trickles from her cut eye.Even in this light, I can see a bruise beginning to form.

After the briefest of hesitations, my mother chases mysister into the trees.

I stand frozen as the buzzing gets louder. Do I go afterthem or run back to safety?

The decision is made for me when the dark cloudgets close enough for me to make out individual shapes.

Winged men with scorpion tails.Dozens of them darkening the sky. They’re flying low

and getting lower.There must have been another batch of them or

several other batches outside the aerie.I run.I sprint away from them, which has me running

toward the school like everyone else. I’m the last one ofthe bunch, so I’m an easy target.

A scorpion swoops down and lands in front of me.

Unlike the ones I saw at the aerie, this one is fullybaked, complete with shaggy hair and teeth that havematured into lion’s fangs. Its arms and legs lookdisturbingly human except that its thighs and upper armsare extra beefy. Its body, at first glance, is human, but thebelly and chest look a little like a cross between definedabs and the sectioned underbellies of grasshoppers.

The teeth are so large the beast can’t seem to closeits mouth and drool drips from its lips. It growls at me andrears its fat scorpion tail above its head.

Fear grips me in a way that’s never happened before.It’s as if I’m reliving the scorpion attack in the aerie

basement. My neck becomes hypersensitive, almosttwitching in expectation of a stinger jabbing into it.

Another scorpion lands near me. This one hasneedle-sharp teeth that it bares as it hisses.

I’m trapped.I snatch off the stuffed bear and pull out my sword. It

feels less clumsy in my hand than it did before but that’s asfar as my confidence will go.

Gunshots go off but mostly the night is filled with thesound of the thunderous roar of wings and the high-pitchedscreams of people.

I barely have time to put myself in the ready stancethat I learned in my dream before one of the monstersleaps for me.

I swing my blade at a forty-five degree angle,

meaning to slice into the juncture of its neck and shoulder.Instead, I slice through its stinger as it whips toward me.

The monster screams, a disturbingly human soundcoming out of its fang-filled mouth.

There’s no time to finish it off because the secondone thrusts its stinger at me.

I shut my eyes and swing wildly in my panic. It’s all Ican do to keep the memories of being stung from freezingme up completely.

Luckily, my sword has no such issues. The gleerolling off it is unmistakable. It adjusts itself to the rightangle. It’s feather light on the upswing and lead heavy onthe downswing.

When I open my eyes, the second scorpion isbleeding on the ground, its tail twitching. The first one isgone, probably having flown away to nurse its injury or todie in peace.

I’m the only living thing standing in my part of thegrove. I slide into the shadow of the nearest tree, trying tocalm my breathing.

The scorpions are still landing, but not near me.They’re attracted to the mass of people who arelogjammed at the fence.

They grab people and sting them repeatedly fromdifferent angles, almost as if practicing or maybe justenjoying it. Even when they latch on to their victims withtheir mouths to suck them dry, other scorpions come and

sting the same victims.People scream and shove each other at the fence,

trying to climb over it. They spread out to try to get to aplace where they can jump the fence, but they get pickedoff by the scorpions, too.

The few who make it to the other side seem to beokay. The scorpions are busy stinging the ones in thegrove, like lazy predators, and don’t pay attention to theones who manage to get out.

When the victims slide to the ground, the scorpionsbegin sucking. By the time everyone is either slumpedagainst the fence or running into the school building acrossthe street, the scorpions have lost interest. They take offinto the air and swirl like a cloud of insects before theydisappear into the darkening sky.

Something rustles behind me, and I spin with mysword ready.

It’s Mom shambling toward me.We are the only people moving on this side of the

fence. Everyone else looks dead. I continue to hide in theshadows anyway in case the scorpions come back, buteverything remains silent and still.

My mother stumbles past me. “She’s gone. I lost her.”Tears shine on her bloody face. She staggers toward thefence, ignoring the fallen people.

“I’m fine, Mom. Thanks for asking.” I grab the bearand wipe the blood off the sword with its chiffon skirt.

“Are you okay? How did you survive?”“Of course you’re fine.” She keeps walking. “You’re

the devil’s bride and these are his creatures.”I slip the blade into the scabbard and put the bear

back on top. “I’m not the devil’s bride.”“He carried you out of the fire and is letting you visit

us from the dead. Who else would have those privilegesexcept his bride?”

She sees me once in a guy’s arms and she has usmarried already. I wonder what Raffe would think of mymom being his mother-in-law. “Did you see where Paigewent?”

“Gone.” Her voice breaks. “I lost her in the woods.”My reaction to that would have been so simple last week.Tonight, though, I don’t know if I’m panicked or relieved.Maybe both.

“Did you hide from the scorpion?” I ask. “How didyou survive?” No answer.

If someone told me that moms have magical powers,I’d have no trouble believing that. It doesn’t even surpriseme much that she somehow survived.

I follow her to the fence. Along the way, I walk pastthe victims lying in uncomfortable and unnatural positions.Although they’re no longer being attacked, they continue toshrivel and dry like jerky. The grove looks like abattlefield with people strewn all over it.

I want to reassure the victims that they’ll come out of

it, that they’ll be okay. But with the viciousness of theattack, I’m not sure that they will.

A couple of scorpion bodies lie among the victims onthe field. One shot in the stomach, one shot in the head.

Mom scans through the victims as if she’s looking forsomeone. She picks the one with the most horrified,contorted expression frozen on his face and tugs him to asection of the fence that’s been trampled.

“What are you doing?” I ask.“An offering,” she says, laboriously dragging the

poor guy. “We need to find Paige so we need an offering.”“You’re creeping me out, Mom.” A waste of breath.As if she knows better than to ask for my help, she

heaves the man up against a fence pole. He slides backdown in a heap.

I want to stop her, but when she gets a crazy projectin her head, nothing on earth will stop her.

Night is starting to fall. The cloud of scorpions isgetting farther away, and there’s not a single stray one inthe sky.

The thought of wandering around the grove in thedark looking for my low-demon sister is not my idea of agood time. But she can’t be left roaming by herself, for allkinds of reasons. And it’ll be much better if I find her thanif the frightened Resistance people find her.

So I leave my mother to do whatever she is doing andreturn to the shadows of the grove.

IT’S ALMOST full night by the time I get back to thecarnage by the fence. There are people walking in a dazearound the victims. Some are hunched over a fallen lovedone, others are wandering about crying and lookingterrified. A few are digging shallow graves.

My mother has finished her project, although she’snowhere in sight. The man she dragged now sits on a stackof bodies with his arms stretched out over the fence like aterrified and terrifying scarecrow. She has tied him inplace with bits of rope that she probably found on one ofthe guys who lassoed Paige.

His contorted, screaming lips are emphasized by rubyred lipstick. His button-down shirt is ripped open,exposing his nearly hairless chest. On it, a messagewritten in lipstick says:

The creep factor of my mother’s project is prettyhigh. Everyone goes out of their way to walk far around it.

As I walk past the bodies, a man bends down tocheck for the pulse of a woman lying beside me.

“Listen,” I say. “These people might not be dead.”“This one is.” He moves on to the next one.“They may seem like they’re dead but they could just

be paralyzed. That’s what the stingers do. They paralyzeand make you seem dead in every way.”

“Yes, well, not having a heartbeat will do that to you,too.” He shakes his head, drops the wrist of the guy hewas checking, and moves to the next victim.

I follow him while soldiers point their rifles up to thesky on the lookout for any signs of another attack. “But youmight not be able to feel their heartbeats. I think it slowseverything down. I think—”

“Are you a doctor?” he asks without pausing in hiswork.

“No, but—”“Well, I am. And I can tell you that if there’s no

heartbeat, there’s no chance of a person being alive exceptfor a very unusual situation such as a child falling into afrozen pond. I don’t see any children who fell into a frozenpond here, do you?”

“I know this sounds crazy, but—”Two men pick up a woman wearily and shuffle over

to a shallow grave.“No!” I cry out. That could have been me. Everybody

thought I was dead for a while, and if circumstances hadbeen different, they might have dumped me in a hole andburied me alive while I watched, paralyzed but totallyaware.

I run over and stand between the men and the hole.“Don’t do this.”

“Leave us alone.” The older man doesn’t even lookat me as he grimly carries the victim.

“She could be alive.”“My wife is dead.” His voice breaks.“Listen to me. There’s a chance she’s alive.”“Can’t you give us some peace?” He glares at me out

of the corners of his eyes. “My wife is dead.” Tearsstream from his red-rimmed eyes. “And she’ll stay dead.”

“She can probably hear you right now.”The man’s face turns red, making it painful to look at

him. “She’ll never come back. And if she does, then shewon’t be our Mary. It’ll be some abomination.” He pointsto a woman standing alone by a tree. “Like her.”

The woman looks fragile, lost, and alone. Even withthe brown scarf wrapped around her head and the gloveson her hands, I recognize the shriveled face of Clara, thewoman who climbed out of the ruins of the aerie. She

wears a dull-colored coat that whispers her desire not tobe noticed. I’m guessing people haven’t exactly beenwelcoming.

She hugs herself as if clinging to the husband andchildren she longs to find. All she wanted was to find herfamily.

Mary’s family drags her paralyzed body into theshallow grave.

“You can’t do this,” I say. “She’s fully aware. Sheknows she’s being buried alive.”

The younger guy asks, “Dad, do you think—”“Your mother is dead, Son. She was a decent human

being and she’ll have a decent burial.” He picks up hisshovel.

I grab his arm.“Get away from me!” He shakes me off, trembling in

fury. “Just because you don’t have the decency to dowhat’s right for your family doesn’t mean you have anyright to stop others from doing what’s right for theirs.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”“You should have put down your sister humanely and

with love before strangers had to step in to try to do it foryou.”

The older man takes the shovel full of dirt and throwsit onto his wife in the hole.

It lands on her face, covering it.

IN THE DARKENING GROVE, Obi wavesover one of his guys. “Please put Ms. Young with hermother and make sure they’re safe and secure for thenight.”

“You’re arresting me?” I ask. “For what?”“It’s for your protection,” says Obi.“Protection from what?” I ask. “The U.S.

Constitution?”Obi sighs. “We can’t have you or your family loose

and causing panic. I need to maintain control.”Obi’s man points his silencer-enhanced pistol at my

chest. “Walk to the street and don’t give me any trouble.”“She’s trying to save people’s lives,” says a

trembling voice. It’s Clara, clutching her oversized coataround her as if wishing she could disappear.

Nobody pays her any attention.I throw Obi a look that says, Are you serious? But

he’s busy waving over another guy.He points to Mom’s victim project. “Why is that

horrible pile of bodies still around? I told you to take themaway.”

Obi’s man tells two other guys to take the bodiesdown. Apparently, he doesn’t want to do it himself.

The two guys shake their heads and back away. Oneof them crosses himself. They turn and run toward theschool, as far from the bodies as they can get.

As my guard escorts me through the carnage, I hearSanjay telling people to stow the unclaimed bodies into avan for autopsies.

I stagger away from them. I just can’t watch. Maybethese people really are dead. I certainly hope so.

I get tossed into the back seat of a police car parkedon the road. Mom is already there.

The police cruiser has a metal mesh between thefront and rear seats. There are bars on the back seatwindows. Beneath the rear window, there are blankets anda couple of bottles of water. My foot knocks over a halfbucket with a lid, complete with packets of sanitarywipes.

It takes me a minute to understand that they’re nottaking us anywhere. This is our holding cell.

Great.

At least the guard didn’t take my sword. He didn’teven pat me down for weapons, so I assume he wasn’t acop in the World Before. Still, he probably would havetaken my sword if it didn’t look like a post-apocalypticcomfort bear.

I sip on a bottle of water, drinking barely enough toquench my thirst but not so much that I’ll need to peeanytime soon.

People frantically rush, trying to finish their jobsbefore full dark, whether their job is dragging bodies intothe autopsy van or burying loved ones. They’ve beenglancing at the sky every couple of minutes, but asdarkness slithers over them, people begin looking behindthem nervously as if worried something will sneak up onthem.

I get it. There’s something horrifying about being leftalone in the dark, especially with someone you think isdead.

I try not to think about what it must be like for thevictims. Paralyzed but aware, left helpless in the dark withmonsters and family.

When the last unclaimed body is tossed into the van,the workers slam it shut and drive off.

Those who didn’t go in the van trot across the streetto the school. Then the families, whether or not they’redone shoveling dirt on their loved ones, drop their shovelsand run after the workers, obviously not wanting to be left

behind.Mom starts to make animal noises of anxiety as she

watches everyone leave. When you’re paranoid, the lastplace you want to be is trapped in a car where you can’trun and can’t hide.

“It’s okay,” I say. “They’ll be back. They’ll let us outwhen they cool off. And then we’ll go find Paige.”

She yanks on the door handle, then jumps over to myside to try the other one. She bangs on the window. Sherattles the screen separating the front seat from the back.Her breathing becomes a pant.

She’s spiraling into serious freak-out mode.The last thing we need is major hysteria in a space

smaller than a sofa.As the final stragglers run past my window, I yell at

them. “Put me in another car!”They don’t even glance my way as they scramble

across the street into the darkness.And I’m left stuck in a very tight space with Mom.

ALL KINDS of worries swirl around in my head.I take a deep breath. I try to shove all the worries

aside and focus on being centered.“Mom?” I keep my voice quiet and calm. What I

really want to do is crawl under the seat to get out of herway when she goes nuclear. But that’s not an option.

I hold out a bottle of water. “Do you want somewater?”

She looks at me like I’m mad. “Stop drinking that!”She snatches it from my hand and stashes it away belowthe rear window. “We need to conserve it.”

Her eyes dart around every corner of our jail. Herdesperate worry shows in every line of her face, and sheis the picture of anxiety. It seems there are more of thoselines showing up every day between her eyebrows and

around her mouth. The stress is killing her.She rummages through her pockets. With every

smashed egg she finds in her pockets, she gets morefrantic. To my relief, someone has taken her cattle prod. Ihate to think how much force that took.

“Mom?”“Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up! You let those men take

her!” She grips the metal mesh with one hand and theseatback with the other. She squeezes until all the bloodruns out of her hands, turning them into white claws.

“You let those monsters do all those horrible thingsto her! You sold yourself to that devil and couldn’t evensave your sister?” The ridges between her eyebrows mashtogether so hard they look nightmarish. “You couldn’t evenlook her in the eye when she needed you most. You wereout there hunting her, weren’t you? So you could kill heryourself! Weren’t you?” Tears stream down her torturedmask of a face.

“What good are you?” She screams in my face withsuch intensity that her face turns crimson like it’s ready toexplode. “You’re heartless! How many times have I toldyou to keep Paige safe? You’re worse than useless!”

She slams her hand against the mesh repeatedly until Ithink it might bleed.

I try to block it out.But no matter how many times I hear her raging at me,

her words still pierce through.

I curl into my corner, trying to get as far from her as Ican. She’ll twist anything I say to fit her crazy logic andthen throw it back at me.

I brace myself for one of her fury storms. Notsomething I want to experience in a jail so small that wecan’t lie down. Not something I want to experience anytime, any place.

If it comes down to it, I’m big enough now to beat herin a fight, but she wouldn’t stop until I had to hurt her. Bestif I can just soothe her.

But I can’t think of anything to say to calm her. Paigewas always the one who did that. So I do the only thingthat comes to mind.

I hum.It’s the song that she hums to us when she’s coming

out of a particularly bad spell. It’s what I think of as herapology song. Sunsets, castles, surf, bruises.

She might ignore me or she might go berserk. It couldsoothe her or make her angrier than ever to hear mehumming her song. If there’s one thing you can count onwith my mother, it’s that she’s unpredictable.

Her hand whips up and slaps my face.She hits so hard I think I’ll always carry a palm print

on my cheek.She slaps me again.The third time, I grab her wrist before she makes

contact.

In my training, I’ve been hit, punched, kicked,shoved, slammed, and choked by all kinds of opponents.But nothing hurts as much as a slap from your mom.

I remind myself that it’s been several weeks sinceshe’s been off her medication, but that does nothing to easethe sting.

I brace myself to subdue her somehow withouthurting her, hoping it doesn’t escalate too far out ofcontrol. But it turns out I don’t have to.

Her expression shifts from fury to anguish. Herfingers loosen against the metal mesh. Her shouldersstoop, and she curls into a fetal ball against the door.

She shakes as the tears take over. She cries in big,baby-girl sobs.

Like her husband has abandoned her to the monsters.Like her daughters have been torn from her by

demons.Like the world has come to an end.And nobody understands.If Paige were here, she’d hold Mom and stroke her

hair. Paige would comfort her until she fell asleep. She’sdone that countless times, even after our mother hurt her.

But I am not Paige.I curl into my own corner, gripping the soft fur of my

teddy bear.

I DREAM I’m with Raffe again.The surroundings look familiar. We’re in the guest

cottage that Raffe and I slept in the night we left the office.It’s the night I learned his name, the night he went fromprisoner to partner, and the night he held me in his arms asI shivered in a nightmare.

The tat-tat of the rain against the windows fills thecabin.

I look down at my then-self who is asleep on thecouch under a thin blanket.

Raffe lies on the other sofa, watching me. Hismuscular body stretches languidly across the cushions. Hisdark blue eyes swirl with thoughts I can’t hear. It’s as ifthe sword became self-conscious after telling me so muchabout Raffe, and now it’s keeping his thoughts hidden.

Maybe I pushed too hard when I asked about that kiss.There’s a softness to Raffe’s look that I’ve never

seen before. It’s not that I see naked longing or tender loveor anything like that. And if I did, it would just be in mymessed-up fantasies.

Not that I fantasize about him.It’s more the way a tough guy who doesn’t like cats

might look at a kitten and notice for the first time that it canbe kind of cute. Sort of a reluctant, privateacknowledgment that maybe cats aren’t all bad.

The unguarded moment is gone in a heartbeat. Raffe’seyes shift to look toward the hallway. He hears something.

He tenses.I wait, straining to see.Two sets of red eyes get larger as they creep closer,

silent as death. They peer into the living room from thedarkness of the hallway, watching me.

Whoa. Why didn’t I know about this?In a flash, Raffe is up and running, grabbing his

sword on his way to the hall.The hellion shadows leap and bound back toward the

bedroom, absolute black against dark gray. They divethrough the open door where cold air flows out like ariver.

Raffe and the creatures drop into slow-mo as theyrace for the broken window beside the bed. The rainsheets in through the gaping shards as the curtains dance in

the wind in slow motion.I know I’m supposed to copy Raffe’s movements as

he attacks but I’m too busy watching what’s happening.The creatures are running, not attacking.

Were they spying on him? Are they going back forreinforcements?

The hellions would have made it out the window ifthe first hadn’t shoved the second out of the way into thecurtains, causing the second to grab the first in its panic.

As they jockey for position, Raffe slices through theone jumping out the window, cutting it almost in half. Thenhe cuts the second one, slicing its throat.

Raffe looks out the window, making sure these twoare the only hellions.

He staggers onto the bed and winces in pain, bendingover to catch his breath. The bandages on his back bloomwith dark blood stains where his wings used to be.

He had only just awakened from his healing sleep afew hours before and this has been his third fight sincethen. Once with me, once with the street gang that brokeinto our office building, and now with these creepy things.I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for him. It’s onething to be cut off from your pack and surrounded byenemies, but to be gravely injured on top of that must bethe loneliest feeling in the world.

He wipes his blade on the bedding, lovinglypolishing it with the sheet. The creatures finally end their

death throes as he leaves.Amazingly, I’m still asleep back in the living room.

Of course, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days andI was practically unconscious from exhaustion. My body isshivering on the couch. The cold seeped in while thebedroom door was open.

Raffe pauses and leans against the sofa, catching hisbreath.

I whimper in my sleep, trembling below him.What’s he thinking?That if any of the hellions are watching, it won’t

make a difference whether we lie on different couches orthe same one? Or that I’m already doomed because I’vebeen in his company for too long?

I whimper again, pulling my knees to my chest underthe thin blanket.

He leans over and whispers, “Hush. Shhh.”Maybe he just needs to feel the warmth of another

living being after going through such a traumaticamputation. Maybe he’s too exhausted to care if I’m aDaughter of Man, as weird and barbaric as the Watchers’wives.

Whatever the reason, he reluctantly pulls the cushionsfrom the back of my couch. He pauses, looking like he’sabout to change his mind.

Then he slides in behind me.At first, his hold is stiff and uncomfortable. But as he

begins to relax, the tension in his face eases.He strokes my hair and whispers, “Shhh.”Whatever comfort he’s giving me, I’m giving at least

that much back just by being a warm body for him to holdat a time when he needs it most.

I snuggle closer to him in my sleep and mywhimpering subsides to a contented sigh. It almost hurts tosee Raffe closing his eyes and holding me the way a kidmight hold a stuffed animal for comfort.

I reach out my phantom hand to stroke his face. But ofcourse, I can’t feel him. I can only feel what the swordremembers.

I run my hand along the lines of his neck and themuscles of his shoulder, anyway.

Imagining the smooth warmth of him.Remembering the feeling of being held in his arms.

IT’S DARK when I wake. I float back into reality,still mired in my dream.

I stroke the soft fur of the teddy bear. My dream hadmore comfort in it than a fighting lesson has any right tohave. It’s as if the sword picked a soothing memory onpurpose and I’m grateful.

It takes a minute before I remember why I’m sleepingin the backseat of a car.

Right. We’re prisoners in a police cruiser.Then the rest of it floods back and I’m wishing I

could return to my dream.Outside, hulks of cars dot the roadway and moon

shadows of branches shift back and forth in the wind. Likemany places, the streets turn surreal and creepy at night.

Something moves outside the window.

Before I can identify the shadow, it taps on thewindow.

I yelp.Silently, my mother clutches my arm, urgently

dragging me down into the footwell with her.“It’s me, Clara,” whispers the shadow.A key turns and the driver’s door opens. Luckily,

someone has turned the car’s overhead light off so we’renot a beacon.

Her too-thin form slips into the driver’s seat.“You’re the dead woman,” says my mother. “All

shriveled up and looking like you crawled out of thegrave.”

“She’s not dead, Mom.” I climb up from the footwelland sit on the seat.

“I sometimes wish I were,” says Clara. She turns onthe engine, which sounds startlingly loud.

“What are you doing?” I ask.“Getting you out of here. Away from these horrible

people.” The car moves into a wide S-curve to avoidother cars.

“Turn off the headlights,” I say. “They’ll attract toomuch attention.”

“It’s the daytime lights. They can’t be turned off.”As she swerves around the obstacles, our lights hit

Mom’s stack of bodies. Apparently, no one wanted totouch them despite Obi’s orders.

The gruesome-looking body sitting on top of the stacksluggishly tries to raise his hand to shield against the light.

“The dead are being resurrected,” says my mother.She sounds excited, like she always knew this wouldhappen.

“He wasn’t dead, Mom.”“You were the first to be resurrected,” says Mom.

“The first of the dead.”“I wasn’t dead either,” I say.“I hope he finds his family and they accept him

back,” says Clara. Her tone makes it clear she doubts it.I try not to think about the rest of the victims.Ironically, my mother may have saved the only

scorpion victims who will survive this night.

ONCE WE put some distance between ourselvesand the Resistance headquarters, Clara stops the car so Ican sit shotgun. Since my mother doesn’t want to be in thebackseat jail any more either, we all cram into the frontseat with me in the middle.

“Thank you, Clara,” I say. “How did you get thekey?”

“Dumb luck,” she says. “Those twins with the funnynames dropped it just a few feet away from me.”

“They… dropped it?” Those guys are the mostskilled sleight-of-hand tricksters I’ve ever seen. Hard to

imagine either of them dropping anything.“Yeah, they were juggling a bunch of things between

them as they walked. The key just fell and they didn’tnotice.”

“But you did.”“Sure.”“How did you know it was the key to our police

car?”She lifts the key tag to show me. It’s a clear plastic

holder that’s probably meant for pictures. This one framesa piece of paper with a note scrawled in little-kid blockletters: “Penryn’s police car—Super Secret.”

If I ever see the twins again, it looks like I owe thema zombie-girl mud fight.

“I hope they don’t get in trouble,” says Clara. “Theyseem like good guys.”

“I’d be surprised if anyone knew they ever had thekey. Don’t worry, they won’t get in trouble.” But I’mguessing one of their archenemies might.

Mom whispers urgently beside me into a cell phone,having a conversation with someone who isn’t there.

“So where should we go?” asks Clara.That darkens my mood. Such a simple question. I

can’t even begin to think through this. Both Mom and Claraare older than I am, but somehow they assume I’ll figure itout.

Paige is gone. And that dead body she was standing

over…I shut my eyes to try to blot out the image, which only

makes it worse. The blood on her face wasn’t hers, I’msure of it. Either she will hunt people or people will hunther. Maybe both.

I can’t bear the thought of either. If they catch her,they’ll treat her the way the Resistance people did—tieher up like an animal or kill her. If she catches them…

Don’t think about it.But I have to think about it, don’t I? I can’t leave her

out there alone, desperate, and scared.The Resistance will probably be looking for her in

the morning. If we can find her first, maybe we cansomehow figure out a way to deal with her problems. Buthow do we find her?

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s go afew towns away from the Resistance, then hide out untilwe can figure out what to do.”

“Good idea,” says Clara, who is looking at the sky asmuch as the road.

“No,” says Mom pointing ahead with one hand andholding the cell phone in the other. “Keep going. Paigewent this way.” She sounds sure of herself.

There’s something odd about her cell phone. It’sbigger and clunkier than normal. It looks vaguely familiar.

“Is that a phone?” I reach for it.“No!” Mom snatches it away and cradles her body

protectively around it. “It’s not for you, Penryn. Not now,not ever.”

My mother has a different relationship with inanimateobjects than most of us do. Sometimes, a light switch isjust a light switch. Until it isn’t.

Out of nowhere, after years of using the same switchto turn on the light, she became convinced that she neededto flip it back and forth to save the city of Chicago. Afterthat, it was just another light switch. Until the day whenshe needed to flip it back and forth to save New YorkCity.

“What is it?” I ask.“It’s the devil.”“The devil is a small black box?” It doesn’t matter,

of course. It never does. But for some reason, I want her totell me about it. Maybe it will jog my memory about whatit is and where I’ve seen it before.

“The devil talks to me through the small black box.”“Oh.” I nod, trying to think of something else to say.

“How about we throw it away then?” If only it could bethat simple.

“Then how are we going to find your sister?”The conversation is bound to go in big circles. I’m

wasting time.My mother shifts and I get a glimpse of the phone’s

screen. It’s a map of the Bay Area with yellow arrowspointing to two spots.

I know that display. I remember it from something mydad brought home once. “That’s Dad’s prototype.”

Mom shoves it behind her back as if worried that I’lltake it.

“I can’t believe you stole this and let him get fired forit.” No wonder he left us.

“He didn’t like that job anyway.”“He loved that job. He was totally broken up over

losing it. Don’t you remember him looking everywhere forthis thing?”

“His company didn’t need it as much as I did. Thedevil wanted me to have it. It wasn’t theirs to keep.”

“Mom…” What’s the point?If he hadn’t gotten fired for losing the prototype, he

would have gotten fired for something else Mom didanyway. It’s hard to be an engineer when your wife callsyou every two minutes. And if he didn’t answer the call,she called the receptionist or his boss or randomcoworkers to find out if he was okay. And if nobodyanswered, then he might get a surprise visit from thepolice, wanting to talk to him about how his wife freakedout in public, screaming and yelling that they had gotten toher husband.

“What is that?” asks Clara.“A prototype device for tracking pets,” I say. “It uses

a tiny tracker. Waterproof and impact resistant. My dadshowed it to us once. Apparently, my mom liked it a lot.”

“He was an engineer?”“He was,” I say. I don’t tell her that by the time he

finally left us, he was working night shifts at 7-Eleven, ournearest convenience store, where Mom could sit in thecorner while he worked the cash register.

“My husband Brad was an engineer, too,” she sayswistfully, almost to herself.

On my mom’s device, the arrow blinks and follows apath. Its target is on the move.

“What are we tracking?” I ask.“Paige,” says Mom.“How do you know this is Paige?” I ask, pretty sure

this is another fantasy. It’s one thing to have Dad’stracking device. It’s another to actually be tracking Paige,considering she needs to have the transmitter on her.

“The devil tells me.” She lowers her head, lookingtroubled. “If I promise him certain things,” she mumbles.

“Okay.” I rub my forehead, trying to be patient.There’s a certain art to getting information out of my mom.You need one foot in reality and one foot in her world toget a better picture of what she’s talking about. “How doesthe devil know where Paige is?”

She looks up at me as if I’d asked the dumbestquestion in the world.

“The transmitter, of course.”

SOMETIMES, even I make the mistake ofunderestimating my mother. It’s easy to assume that she’snot smart and cunning just because she believes inillogical things and makes poor decisions. But hercondition has nothing to do with her intelligence. I forgetthat sometimes.

“Is the transmitter on Paige?” I hold my breath, notdaring to breathe.

“Yes.”“Where? How?” If Mom had put the transmitter in a

bag or something, thinking that Paige would have it on her,then we might be following a Resistance trash truckinstead of Paige.

“There.” Mom points to my shoe.I look down and at first I don’t see anything. Then I

realize that she’s not pointing at the shoe. She’s pointing atthe yellow starburst sewn on the bottom of my jeans. I’mso used to these starbursts that I don’t even see themanymore.

I reach down to take a good look at the star for thefirst time. A hard corner beneath the yellow threads pokesinto my thumb. It’s tiny and unnoticeable, or at least I’venever noticed it.

“This is you,” she says, with her finger on the lowerarrow in Redwood City.

“This is Paige.” She moves her finger to the upperarrow in San Francisco.

Could she have gone so far in such a short time?I take a deep breath. Who knows what she’s capable

of doing now?I remember Dad showing us a tiny flake of a chip

perched on the tip of his finger. He had handfuls of them inthe container with the receiver. The chip was covered inplastic coating that made it dirt-free and waterproof, sothe dogs could roll in the mud and be sprayed off withoutaffecting the transmitter.

This is how Mom showed up so regularly when Raffeand I were on the road. This is how she ended up at theaerie.

“Mom, you’re a genius.”My mother looks surprised. Then she beams a

delighted smile. I haven’t seen her this happy since I don’t

know when. Her face radiates joy like a little girl who justfound out she did something right for the first time in herlife.

I nod. “Good job, Mom.” Kind of a disturbing eye-opener to realize that your own parent needsencouragement from you.

WE DITCH the noisy police car for a quietelectric vehicle that has the keys in the ignition.

I rummage through the police cruiser’s glovecompartment and trunk for anything useful to transfer intothe new car. I score binoculars and a grab-and-go bag fullof emergency supplies. If there’s one thing Obi’s men aregood at, it’s survival on the run. I suspect all theResistance vehicles have these.

Clara takes me aside on our way into the new car.“Don’t get your hopes up,” she whispers.

“Don’t worry. I know my chances of finding Paigeare slim.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean about your mom.”“Believe me, I have no hopes about her.”“But you do. I can see it. There’s a saying, ‘Just

because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out toget you.’ Well, the reverse is true too. Just becausesomeone’s out to get you doesn’t mean you’re notparanoid.”

“I don’t understand.”“The world going crazy doesn’t mean your mother

isn’t still crazy, too.”I pull back from her. I wasn’t thinking that.Not really.But did she have to steal that possibility away from

me?“I used to be a nurse. I know how hard this kind of

condition can be for a family. It can help to talk about it. Ijust don’t want you to get hurt, thinking your mom might be—”

I kick in the headlights and running lights on the newcar to keep it from being a beacon. I smash them so hardthe bulbs are practically pulverized.

We don’t need those lights. There’s enough moonlightto see the hulks of cars on the road even if we can’t seemuch detail.

I slide into the passenger seat.“Sorry,” says Clara as she slips into the driver’s

seat.I nod.And that’s the end of that ugly topic.She turns on the engine and we head north again

slowly toward San Francisco.“Why are you here, Clara? My mom and I aren’t

exactly the best traveling mates.”She drives in silence for a while. “I may have lost

faith in humanity. Maybe they’re right to exterminate us.”“What does that have to do with you traveling with

us?”“You’re a hero. I’m hoping you’ll restore my faith

and show me that we’re worth saving.”“I am so not a hero.”“You saved my life back at the aerie. By definition,

you’re my hero.”“I left you in a basement to die.”“You broke me out of the grasp of a living horror

when I thought all hope was gone. You gave me theopportunity to crawl back to life when no one else could.”

She glances over at me, her eyes shining in the dark.“You’re a hero, Penryn, whether you like it or not.”

MY MOTHER mutters nonstop at the receiver. Hervoice turns into a cadence, and it creeps me out that it’sthe same cadence as when she prays. Because this time,she’s addressing the devil.

It’s slow going weaving through dead cars in the darkbut we manage. We follow the same route that Raffe and Ihad when we drove into the city. Only this time, there’s noone on the road. No refugees, no twelve-year-olds drivingcars, no tent cities. Just mile after mile of empty streets,newspapers tumbling along the sidewalks, and abandonedcell phones crunching under our tires.

Where are the people? Are they hiding out behind thedark windows of the buildings? Even after the aerieattack, I can’t imagine that everyone left the city.

I find myself stroking the soft fur of the stuffed bear.

There’s something especially eerie about the deserted citystreets and something especially reassuring about having akick-ass sword hanging around my shoulders, even if it isdisguised as a stuffed toy.

In a couple of hours, we find ourselves working ourway toward the piers.

We crest a hill in the dead of night. San Franciscoshould be a city bustling with sparkling lights, motion, andnoise. I used to look forward to and dread coming here atthe same time because of all the sensory overload. Ialmost always got lost wandering around the windy streetsthe few times I visited with friends or my dad.

Now, it’s a wasteland.The waning moon drips some light onto overturned

trash cans and scurrying rats, but the city is so sooty fromthe raging fires during the Great Attack that it absorbsmore light than seems possible. The once-beautiful cityhas become a nightmare landscape.

Mom surveys the land with a jaded eye. It’s as if shealways knew it would be like this. As if she had seenthings like this her whole life.

But even she takes in a breath at the sight of AlcatrazIsland.

Alcatraz is notorious for being the jail that held themost infamous criminals. It sits in the bay, glowing dimlyunder the moonlight reflecting off the water.

It must have its own generator that someone has fired

up. The Alcatraz lights aren’t pinpoints of welcomingsparkles. Instead, there’s a dull, heavy glow thatpermeates the island, just enough for it to be visible in thedark bay.

And just bright enough for us to see the swarm ofunnaturally shaped creatures swirling in the air above it.

Mom glances at the blinking on her receiver. Shepoints to Alcatraz.

“There,” she says. “Paige is there.”Great. How did she get all the way over here in such

a short time? Can she really run that fast, or did someonedrive or fly her there?

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.At least the angels didn’t have the sense of humor to

take over the neighboring Angel Island instead. That’ssomething Raffe probably would have done if he had beenin charge.

Clara parks our car at a random angle on the street,trying to blend in. I grab the binoculars as we get out.We’re on Pier 39 near Fisherman’s Wharf. In the WorldBefore, it was a major tourist attraction crammed full ofT-shirt shops, candy stores, and open fish markets.

“My girls used to love this place,” says Clara.“Every Sunday we’d come here for lunch. The girlsthought it was such a treat to eat clam chowder in a breadbowl and watch the sea lions. This place was likehappiness in a bottle for them.” She gazes out with a

bittersweet look in her eyes.The sea lions are still here, at least. I can hear them

barking somewhere near the water. They’re the only thingsfamiliar, though.

The docks are skewed and broken like toothpickstructures. Many of the buildings have collapsed into pilesof driftwood. It looks like the fires didn’t reach this areabut the angry water sure did.

The fierce surf from the worldwide tsunamis wasdampened before reaching into the bay, but that didn’t stopthe damage. It only kept this part of the city from beingswamped and utterly destroyed.

There’s a ship lying on its side on the street. Anotherone sticks out from the roof of a demolished building.

Splinters the size of redwood trees are everywhere.Too bad angels aren’t killed like vampires. We could lurethem here and have a field day.

There’s a surprisingly intact cruise liner docked inthe water. I want to run over, take it across to the island,and yell out for Paige. Instead, I huddle behind a pile ofbroken crates where I can see but not be seen.

I peer through the binoculars at Alcatraz.The things swirling in the night sky above the island

are too dark to see in detail, but I can make out theirsilhouettes against the moonlit sky.

The shapes of men.Wings.

Fat scorpion tails.

WHAT AT FIRST looked like a chaotic swarmturns out to be an ordered flight pattern.

Sort of.Most of the scorpions follow an angel as he rises,

then banks, then dives. The scorpions follow him aroundlike baby birds. Most of them, anyway.

Some lag so far behind that they almost get in theangel’s way as he goes through his flight routine. And it isa routine. He repeats his flight pattern to stay near theisland. He varies it here and there but it’s mostly apredictable pattern.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s teaching them tofly.

Baby birds are taught to fly and baby dolphins aretaught to breathe air. Maybe baby monsters need to be

taught how to be monster-like. Usually, babies are taughtby their mothers, but these things don’t have mothers.

The angel is doing a poor job of teaching, though.Several of the scorpions are struggling. Even I can see thata few of them are flapping their wings too fast. They’renot hummingbirds and they’re likely to tire out or givethemselves a heart attack, assuming they have a heart.

One of them falls right into the water. It floundersthere, screeching.

Another scorpion swings down too low to the fallenone. I can’t tell which scorpion grabs which—whether theone in the air tries to help its buddy or the one in the watergrabs the one in the air—but either way, the second onesplashes into the water, too.

They thrash and try to climb on top of each other.Each fights for a few more seconds of air by trying to bethe one standing on the other. But the winner only getsenough air for one final screech before they both sink.

The first time I saw these things in the aeriebasement, they were suspended in tubes of liquid. But Iguess they must have had some sort of umbilical cord, orthey changed when they were “born,” because now they’reclearly drowning.

Footsteps make me spin and crouch lower. Mom andClara hunker down beside me behind a broken crate.

There are so many shadows along the pier’s oldshopping area that an army could be marching toward us

and I wouldn’t see them. We huddle deeper into thedarkness.

More footsteps. Running now.People dart in and out of the shadows and dash into

the open where the moonlight exposes them. A smallstampede of people desperately running from something.

A couple of them glance behind them with a look ofterror as they run.

Aside from their pounding feet on the buckledwooden planks, they don’t make any other noise. Noscreaming, no calling out to each other.

Even when a woman falls, obviously twisting anankle, she makes no noise other than the soft thud of herimpact. Her face contorts in pain and terror but no soundcomes out of her mouth. She gets up and hobbles as fast asshe can in a hop-run, frantically trying to keep up with therest of the stampede.

Their panic echoes in my chest. I have the urge to runeven though I have no idea what they’re running from.

Just as my leg twitches from indecision, the thingschasing the crowd come around the corner.

There are three of them. Two scorpions hover low tothe ground, buzzing on their insect wings. In the centerlimps an angel who looks like he’s been on steroids.

The huge angel has snowy wings.Raffe’s wings.Beliel.

EVEN IN this dangerous situation, my heart twists atseeing Raffe’s beautiful wings on the demon Beliel.

The last time I saw Beliel, he was limping with aninjured wing. Someone must have sewn the wing back intoplace on him after Raffe ripped the stitches. Must be niceto have evil doctors on hand. Beliel’s limp is noticeablebut not nearly as bad as it was when Raffe chased him atthe airport.

He also has fresh bandages wrapped around hisstomach where Raffe sliced him with his sword the firsttime I met him. It’s good to see more evidence that angelsword wounds don’t speed-heal like other wounds, justlike Raffe said.

The scorpions fly leisurely, swinging back and forth,dipping low enough to look into the windows. One

smashes a window—probably the last intact window onthe pier.

The shattering noise is immediately followed by apanicked shriek. A family with kids darts out of the shop’sdoor and joins the group running from the monsters.

There’s something about the way the scorpions aremoving that raises red flags in my head. They’re notchasing to catch.

They’re flushing out prey.Before my mind can form the word “trap,” lights

blaze on and a fishing net drops from the sky.That’s when the screams start.One, two, five fishing nets, as big as house tents, fall

from the dark sky.Darker shadows dive down from above. They land

on all fours, scuttling along the ground like real scorpionsbefore standing up on human-shaped legs.

Two of them actually slam into the broken dock face-first, as if they haven’t quite got the hang of landing yet.One of them shrieks its fury at the trapped people, showinga mouth full of lion’s teeth. It viciously yanks the edge ofthe net, making it whip into people’s ankles.

There are dozens of humans trapped under the nets,clawing and squirming, trying to find the edge of theirsnare so they can escape. A few jabs of the scorpionstingers cause people to crowd together in the middle oftheir traps. They cry and scream, all their previous silence

gone.Gunshots ring out from one of the trapped groups. A

nearby scorpion goes down, screeching.As if a dinner bell rang, a bunch of scorpions dive

onto the netted group where the shot came from. Stingerslash up and down, repeatedly stinging until blood dripsfrom the tips. Their monster heads latch onto the victims tosuck on them.

The screams and thrashing quiet after a minute,leaving only a pile of shriveled bodies twitching beneath ashroud of mesh.

I don’t know if anyone else has a gun, but after that,no one dares to shoot.

A boy of about eight was separated from his father.They reach for each other under different nets. The kid iscrying for his dad but it’s the father who looks ashen andutterly terrified at being separated.

The scorpions corral them, half-dragging their nets,half-keeping them moving by threatening with theirstingers.

We crouch down farther into the shadows, hardlydaring to breathe.

The monsters march the captives to a metal shippingcontainer—the kind that trucks, trains, and ships carry. It’snot far from us but with all the debris strewn around, Ihadn’t even noticed it.

They open the container door. A metal-lattice rollup

gate is behind that.And behind the gate, people cluster together as far

from the entrance as they can get.Half the container is already crammed full of men,

women, and even a few children. They’re terrified andhuddling together like the helpless victims that they are.

The scorpions roll up the metal gate, lifting up thenets. The new captives scurry away from the monsters andinto the container.

THE SCORPIONS do a surprising thing. They takeoff into the night sky, leaving Beliel alone to roll down theprisoner’s chain gate and lock it.

He takes his time doing this as if to tease thecaptives. When he’s done, he hangs the key on one of thelamps beside the container.

The mesh of the rollup gate is woven loosely enoughto put an arm or foot through an opening, but even a kidcouldn’t get out.

The old prisoners are quiet but the new ones make afair bit of noise with their crying and panicked questions.

“What’s going on?”“What are they going to do to us?”Beliel limps around shutting off the tripod utility

lights on the dock. His knee seems to be bothering him

more than before. He leaves the lights on only near theshipping container. The circle of light is bright there andI’m glad we’re still hidden in the shadows.

As if the fear and hysteria of the prisoners weren’tenough for him, Beliel rattles the container gate, thenslams his open palm on the metal side. The loud clangechoes through the pier.

Everyone cringes and the crying gets louder. Theterror and hopelessness come in such big waves that theyswamp me.

Beliel shoves his face into the chains of the gate.Everyone backs away even more. He hisses and growls atthem. Then he grabs the edge of the container and shakesit.

Now, even the veteran prisoners are screaming.What’s he doing?I’ve seen him in a rage when he’s been totally out of

control. This is different. There’s no passion in what he’sdoing. It’s just a job.

He’s on edge, though, and sneaking glances up at thesky.

Is he being watched? Maybe this is more training forthe scorpions? Maybe they’re still around, watchingsomewhere? For what purpose?

I look up into the darkness and the remainingrooflines, suddenly feeling exposed.

I see only the beams of light near the container

prison. The lights are a beacon from the bleak landscapeof twisted buildings and the lifeless night.

I still can’t make sense of it.Then, a darker silhouette appears against the sky.Menacing demon wings.Broad shoulders.The shape of a Greek god gliding through the sky.Raffe.Every nerve in my body comes alive and pulses.My mind cries trap, trap, trap!This is why Beliel is alone, making all this noise.

The noise would both attract attention and disguise anynoises that the scorpions would make. The scorpions areout there. Hiding. Waiting.

Without thinking, I instinctively spring and open mymouth to scream a warning to Raffe.

But vice-like hands grip my arm, knocking me offbalance. Hands clamp down over my mouth and all I cansee are the huge, terrified eyes of my mother. She looks atme like I have gone insane.

My brain finally catches up to the rest of me.She’s right.Of course she’s right. How bad are things when your

clinically insane mother is more rational than you are?Raffe.I nod to show that I’m sane again and shift so I can

see what’s going on. Mom lets me go.

Raffe lands silently. His wings don’t fold all the way.The scythes on the edge of his wings unsheathe and hewhips them out. They’re retractable. I hadn’t realized thatbefore.

I frantically run through my options. What can I do?Yelling will get all of us in trouble. Besides, Raffe thinksI’m dead. Yelling to him might only put him in moredanger by shocking him.

The prisoners scream when they see Raffe with hisdemon wings. It’s painful to see that people prefer a badguy who looks like an angel to a good guy who looks likea demon.

Beliel feigns stage shock like a clown. “Why, it’sRaphael! Oh, how will I defend myself from the greatWrath that is the fallen echo of what once was?” He dropsthe act. “Seriously, Raphael, there’s nothing sadder than abroken wreck of a has-been obsessed with trying to relivehis past glory. Have a little dignity, will you? You’reembarrassing yourself.”

“Shall I rip off your arms and legs first and then tearoff the wings? Or the other way around?” Raffe’s voice isfull of raw violence in a tone I haven’t heard before. Hesounds like he wishes he could have it both ways.

“Why do you want to go back so badly, Raphael?What was so great about being part of the angelic hostanyway? So. Many. Rules. I’d forgotten just how many.Maybe you have, too.”

Beliel is stalling. Keeping Raffe in place until thescorpions can descend on him. I’m dying to call out awarning to him. It’s all I can do to stay quiet.

“All this theory about how a master warrior race canonly survive if every little infraction of the rules ispunished in the extreme.” Beliel motions his hand in agesture that says, Whatever. “It might have made senseonce upon a time when there were only a few rules, butnow, things have gotten out of hand, don’t you think? We,the Fallen, on the other hand, have proven that a masterwarrior race can survive just fine with the oppositesystem. No rules. You do what you want. To whoever youwant.”

Raffe advances on him, the harsh lights emphasizingthe shadows on his face. He looks like the Angel of Death.Or maybe the Angel of Vengeance. Someone I can’timagine approaching.

“You would have saved yourself so much hassle ifyou had listened to reason and joined us,” says Beliel.“That little Daughter of Man who died in your arms? Shecould have been yours. No one would have said no. Noone would have dared to try to take her from you.”

With a vicious growl, Raffe attacks.

HE LEAPS for Beliel and slaps his wings into him,clearly meaning to slash through him.

Beliel spins out of the way, partly avoiding the hit.He tosses a work lamp in Raffe’s direction.

The light crashes onto the pier. It flashes with a looseconnection, lighting the fighters in a random strobe light.

Blood drips down Beliel’s sneering face and arms.“Admit it. You like the new wings. Why bother with fluffyand feathery when you can have freedom and power?”

“I could ask the same of you, Beliel.” Raffe stalksmenacingly toward Beliel.

“I’ve had my life of freedom and rampaging. It’s timefor a change. A little respectability. A little well-deservedadmiration, don’t you think?” They circle each other likesharks getting ready to attack. Beliel’s limp is gone now

that he’s lured Raffe.“Respectability and admiration are beyond you,”

says Raffe. “You’re nothing but a pathetic minion forangels.”

“I am not a minion!” His face turns red and furious. “Ihave never been a minion. Not for devils, not for angels,not for anybody!” The randomly flashing light highlightsthe stark shadows of his blood-streaked face.

Raffe leaps for Beliel again. But his motion isinterrupted by a net falling on him from the night sky.

Raffe rolls on the pier, tangled in the net.Get up, get up!All the fight rages inside me. Can I watch as Raffe

gets executed? Every fiber of my being chants, No, no, no.What can I do? What can I do?Raffe isn’t struggling against the net like I expected.

Instead, he whisks open his wings. The scythe-like hookson his wings snag the net.

Then his wings slice up, cutting the mesh.It falls around him like a dropped veil as he leaps up,

ready for a fight.Scorpions drop out of the sky, a couple of them

landing on Raffe. He ducks but their glancing blows shovehim off balance.

Raffe’s wings, arms, and legs whip around him.Three scorpions go down, writhing in pain. That stillleaves half a dozen more plus Beliel. As if that isn’t

enough, three more land on the outskirts of the fight.I pluck off my bear and pull out my sword, ready to

dive in.Mom grabs my shirt and yanks me so hard that I land

on my butt like a little kid.Luckily, Raffe seems to be able to hold his own. I

doubt that he’s made peace with his new wings but he’s atleast learned to control them better than the last time I sawhim.

He’s also a fearless fighter. I hadn’t quite realizedjust how fierce he could be, but now that I think about it,this may be the first time I’ve seen him fight when itwasn’t immediately after a major injury. The sword’smemories only had him fighting with a sword, which wassomething to see, but this is more of a ferocious dance.

I’m sure Raffe hasn’t fully recovered yet, but he’s awonder to watch. He’s fast. Faster than the scorpions thatkeep trying to sting him. A single scorpion is no more amatch for him than a fire ant is to a person.

He’s far outnumbered, though. Yet, he doesn’t seemthat concerned as he slowly slashes his way closer toBeliel.

Beliel gets the picture and takes off into the night sky.Apparently, his evil health plan covers wing injuriesbecause his wings seem to work just fine.

Raffe takes off after him.I watch him get farther from me. He never even knew

I was near.He disappears into the darkness like a fading dream.I stare at the sky where he vanished for longer than I

probably should.

THE SCORPIONS hesitate before the first onesleave the ground. I assume they’re flying after Raffe, butI’m not entirely sure. There’s a certain reluctance to theway they take off. Almost half of them stay on the ground,looking at each other, unsure.

These have to be the worst minions ever. Whateverwas bred into them, courage wasn’t on the list. No wonderBeliel had to fight off Raffe for so long before thescorpions arrived.

Eventually, all the ones who can take off do. Half adozen are left bleeding and dead on the splintered dock,while a few writhe and hiss in pain beside them. Theydon’t look like they’re capable of much harm any more,but I keep a close eye on them, just in case.

Mom lets out a deep sigh beside me. Clara, though,

still seems to be frozen in fear. She’s probably goingthrough some post-traumatic stress issues right now afterseeing so many scorpions.

It’s time for us to get out of here. Somewhere safe forthe night where we can cook up some crazy scheme torescue Paige. But even I can’t stir up much enthusiasm fornutty schemes right now.

I am just a girl. I am no match for these monsters.They may have looked weak compared to Raffe, and I mayhave felt like an equal in some ways during my journeywith him, but after seeing what I just saw, reality sinks in.

It would be suicide to sneak onto Alcatraz Island. It’scrawling with these monsters and there’s no way of gettingback out.

Despite my erratic behavior, both Mom and Clarastill depend on me to decide the timing of our exit out ofhere. We’re in the shadows and should have a decent shotof making it out unnoticed.

I listen for enemies and monsters. All I hear are theterrified sobs of the people locked in the container. Thesounds are muffled now, probably to avoid attention, butthe captives can’t seem to stop themselves.

The container lights up with the intermittent flashes ofthe work lamp lying on the ground. Behind the rollup gate,the prisoners crowd together, giving me an impression ofdespair and grime every time the light flashes.

I get ready to sprint from the pile of crates we’re

hiding behind. But I can’t seem to leave. My eyes keepdrifting over to the people locked in the container.

In theory, it would be a no-brainer to run over and letthem out. It would only take a couple of minutes to free abunch of people from whatever horrors await them.

If I had the key.Beliel hung it on one of the lamps but now, I’m not

sure which of the two lamps he used. If it was on the onehe threw at Raffe, it could take an hour to find it.

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the sights andsounds of the prisoners. I need to concentrate on Paige andMom. I can’t just be distracted by everybody who needshelp, because we all need help now. Desperately.

I glance at Mom and see the terror on her face. She’smoving her lips silently and rocking back and forth. Theseare real monsters straight out of her nightmares. Clara islooking even worse, if that’s possible.

I need to get up and get us out of here. I need to takecare of my own people.

A heartbroken, terrified sob reaches across the pierand grabs me.

I try to ignore it.But I can’t.That could have been Paige before those angel

monsters got to her. It’s almost certainly someone else’ssister, daughter, or mom. And wouldn’t it have been awonder if someone out there could have helped Paige the

way I could help these people?Ugh. Why can’t I shut down that stupid thought?Yeah, all right already.I get up from my crouch. Worry and fear intensify in

my mother’s face when she sees me eyeing the path to theprisoners. I don’t have to worry about her following me.Sometimes, being paranoid really does save your life.

There’s certainly no chance Clara will follow me.She has excellent reasons to be petrified of the scorpions.But along with the fear, there’s something in her eyes Ididn’t expect.

Pride.She expects me to rescue them. She still thinks I’m a

stupid hero. A part of her would be disappointed if I justwalk away.

That almost makes me abandon the whole idea.But, of course, I don’t.I dash out from the relative safety of the darker

shadows.

THE INJURED scorpions notice me right away. Myheart practically stops when they turn and hiss at me.

I can almost feel the excruciating pain of the sting, thepanic of losing control of my body while still conscious.The thought of having to go through that again makes merun so hard I think I might pass out.

In my freaked-out state, I don’t pay enough attentionto my footing and I slip on blood.

I catch myself from falling by doing an awkwarddance of hand and sword balancing.

Focus.Do not let the scorpions hurt you twice just because

you’re freaking over the possibility.I shove everything—fear, hope, thoughts—into the

vault in my head and slam the door shut before they

explode back out. It’s getting trickier to open that vaultdoor.

The only thing in the world now is my path to theprisoners’ container. I rub the sole of my shoe on theground to wipe off the blood.

For all their hissing and screeching, the injuredscorpions stay down. I keep an eye on them to make surethey’re not crawling toward me.

Before I walk into the circle of light, I look around tomake sure there are no scorpions, angels, or winged ratsheaded my way. It doesn’t help that my eyes are alreadyadjusting to the light, making the shadows that muchdarker.

I dive into the light like I’m jumping into water.I feel instantly exposed.Anyone on the pier can see me now. I run as fast as I

can to the still-standing light by the metal jail. All theprisoners quiet down as if holding their collective breaths.

The key is not on the standing work light or anywherenear it.

I look back at the flashing lamp that Beliel threw onthe pier. The key could have flown off anywhere.

Either I commit to looking for it in this sea ofsplintered planks, or I give up and make sure Mom andClara get out of here safely.

Or, I could see if my sword can cut through metal.It easily cut through bones during my dream training,

and it’s supposed to be so special. Before I can thinkabout it, I lift the sword and slice down.

The blade easily cuts through the lock and the gate’smetal tab.

Whoa.Not bad.I lift my sword for the second lock. But before I can

cut it, there’s a rustling behind me.I spin with my sword still above me, half-convinced

an injured scorpion has crawled over, ready to strike.But it’s not an injured scorpion.It’s a healthy one.It folds its gossamer wings as if it just landed. It

stalks toward me, barefoot on its much too human-likefeet. Somehow, I might feel better if they had clawed feetor something else that made them look less human.

Two more scorpion angels land behind the first one.There’s only one more lock. I spin around and chop

at it with my blade.It comes flying off. The chain-link gate hangs open

now. All they have to do is roll it up and run.Instead, the prisoners huddle in the back, frozen in

terror.“Come on!” I slam on the side of the container to

shock them into action. “Run!”I don’t wait to see if they do. I’ve just put Mom and

Clara in danger of a horrifying death. I could kick myself

for not convincing them to leave without me.The gate rattles behind my back.The freed prisoners begin to run, scattering

everywhere, their footsteps pounding on the wooden pier.I run in the opposite direction of Mom and Clara,

hoping to draw the scorpions away from them.Then I hear my mother.She screams a bloodcurdling screech of terror.

EVERYONE SPREADS OUT, instinctivelyheading in different directions.

There are only a few monsters and a lot of us.There’s a good chance that some of us will get away.

I run toward a mass of shadows where a pink icecream sign sticks out of a pile of broken planks. If I canget around it, I might be able to disappear into the jaggedshadows.

But before I get there, something smacks my head anddrapes over me.

I’m tangled in a net.My first thought is to slice through it with my sword

but I’m now surrounded by the people who were runningbehind me and there isn’t enough room. The more wethrash, the more entangled we get.

Shadows fall out of the sky. Shadows with insectwings and curling stingers.

They drop in random places. One on top of theshipping container, making a hollow boom. Several landin front of the old row of shops where half a dozen peoplewere heading before a net came down on them too.

Five, ten, twenty. So many that it starts to sound likewe’re in a hive.

We’re trapped.Everyone is sobbing again. This time, the despair is

so thick I feel like I’m drowning in it.Even if I could cut through the netting, I couldn’t cut

my way through all these scorpions. I slide my sword backinto its scabbard to make it less noticeable.

The net stinks of fish. At first, I don’t think we canwalk with it on us, but one of the scorpions grabs the edgeof our net and pulls a drawstring. We bunch together as theedge closes around our legs.

The scorpion yanks us along in our net trap like it’spulling a dog on a leash. Its stinger aims for us, hoveringjust within striking zone. Another scorpion walks besideus, making it clear by the rhythmic jabbing of its stingerthat we should do what it wants.

I frantically look for Mom and Clara, hoping againstall odds that I won’t see them.

But there they are, only two netted groups away fromme. My mother clutches my teddy bear to her bosom like

it’s her long-lost baby, while Clara clutches Mom’s armlike she’ll die if she lets go. They both look petrified.

I feel sick.Sick from fear. Sick from anger. Sick from the

stupidity of what I’ve done.I came here for my sister and instead I’ve gotten

myself recklessly caught. Worse, I’ve gotten Mom andClara caught too. And looking at the large number ofcaptives on the pier, I didn’t even free anyone either.

Several groups of netted humans converge as we’reherded toward the water. At first, I assume the scorpionsare taking us to a new shipping container, but instead of aholding cell, they move us toward a boat.

“Brian!” A young woman under my net reaches herhand out to a guy trapped under another as our two groupsget closer.

“Lisa!” the guy calls to her with desperation. Theystrain against the mesh and stretch their arms as far asthey’ll go to try to touch each other.

For a second, they manage to brush fingertips.Then our group moves past theirs, breaking their

touch. The woman starts sobbing, her hand still reachingfor him.

Another group gets shoved in front of Brian and hedisappears into the crowd, still reaching for her.

THE BOAT is two stories high and has seenbetter days. The paint is so scraped that I’m convinced theboat must have been lying on its side on the roof of aruined building before the bad guys put it to use.Somehow, it still manages to float. And it still sports thewords “Captain Jake’s Alcatraz Tours” in blue, althoughwith all the scratches, it looks more like “Alcatraz ours.”

The engine starts and we’re treated to a dark plumeof exhaust. The smell of gas pollutes the air almostimmediately. A human minion must be running the boat. Ikind of hope it’s not Captain Jake.

Everyone gets jostled and shoved toward the boat.Scorpions begin releasing us from the nets. We have noplace to run, of course, not if we want to live a few moreminutes.

As the first captives begin boarding, I manage to getclose enough to Mom and Clara for us to shuffle together.Mom hands me the stuffed bear like she’s been keeping itsafe for me.

I slip the bear onto my sword, disguising it again. Ihave wild hopes of being able to take it with me andmaybe using my fledgling skills to get us out of this mess.

My hopes are dashed when I see that weapons arebeing taken from prisoners as they board. There’s agrowing pile of stuff on the dock by the boat ramp. Axes,spiked bats, tire irons, machetes, knives, and even a fewguns. I would still have hope if the pile only had weapons

but it also includes purses, backpacks, dolls, and yes, evenstuffed animals.

There are grim-faced people—humans—taking thesethings from the prisoners. They don’t talk and they don’tlook anyone in the eye. They just grab whatever is semi-visible on the prisoners and toss the objects onto the pile.

I stroke my bear, wondering if this is my best chanceat escape. Even if I couldn’t get away, maybe I couldcause enough of a distraction so that Mom and Claracould. We’re in the brief window of time when I still havemy sword and we’re no longer trapped in a net so it’s nowor never.

A gunshot explodes so close that we all duck.A man who apparently didn’t want to give up his gun

holds it still pointed at one of the women minions who isnow bleeding on the ramp. He is instantly surrounded byscorpions with their stingers. Their fangs are so close tohis face that I’m sure he can smell their breath.

He trembles so badly that he actually drops his gunand a spreading wetness stains the front of his pants.

The scorpions don’t attack the shooter, though. It’s asif they’re waiting for something.

“Here, take her knife,” says another human minion.His face is lined with grief, his eyes half-dead and shell-shocked. He grabs a kitchen knife out of a prisoner’s handand gives it to the shooter. “Now, toss it into that pile.”

The shooter’s arm spastically jerks the knife onto the

pile. He looks so frightened that he probably neverconsidered stabbing one of the scorpions with it.

The scorpions hiss and back off, moving to patrol thecrowd again.

We were all so riveted by the drama that none of usthought to escape while it was happening. So much forcausing a distraction to let Mom and Clara get away.

The shooter replaces the minion that he shot as hetakes weapons and bags from the other prisoners. Hedoesn’t make eye contact and he doesn’t say a word. Hedoes occasionally sneak a glance at the woman he shotwho is dying at his feet.

After that, there are no more incidents as everyonegets on the boat.

When one of the minions reaches for my bear-disguised sword, I have to force myself to lift the strapover my shoulder and place it on the pile myself. It takesall my willpower to do it, since a part of me wants to yankit out and chop up a few scorpions. But there must betwenty, maybe thirty of them here.

I slip the scabbard into the bottom of the pile, tryingto hide as much of it as possible. Someone will eventuallyfind it. What happens after that is anyone’s guess.

Mom and Clara pull me up and along with them. Iguess I looked like I didn’t want to leave it behind. Iglance back at the silly teddy bear partially buried under apile of weapons and bags and can’t help but think that

maybe I’ll never see Raffe or his sword again.Behind me, the woman who reached for her lover

cries softly.

THE WATER slaps onto the boat’s side while thedeck rolls back and forth. We shuffle onto the ship, andbefore long, we’re gliding through the dark waters.

Alcatraz is legendary for being the most inescapablejail of all time. Just the sight of it in the dim light makesme want to run away. I think about diving into the waterwith Mom and Clara and taking our chances, but othersbeat me to it.

A couple runs for it. It’s Brian and Lisa, the couplewho had been separated by the nets. My heart races withhope that they’ll make it. We’re not so far off that theycan’t swim to the other side, freezing or not.

But the scorpions are fast.So fast that three of them zap their stingers to tag the

couple on their way out the doors.

They don’t chase them though. They just let the pairmake their own choices. It takes time to becomeparalyzed, but I know the excruciating pain and stiffnessstarts immediately. By the time the couple reaches theedge of the boat, they’re dragging their feet.

It would be suicide to jump. They’ll be paralyzedlong before they can reach shore.

But the other option is to stay frozen among thescorpions, completely at their mercy.

Tough choice. I really feel for them. I’m not surewhich I’d choose.

They choose to stay on board. Brian leans against therail as if thinking about jumping, but he can’t seem tocommit. Lisa lays her head down on the deck beside him.

I understand. Anyone who is alive now is a survivor.They’ve done what it takes to make it this far, and theycan’t help but keep going. Brian slides down the rail andlies beside Lisa, twitching and losing control of hismuscles. The scorpions mostly ignore the couple,seemingly bored as they leap off the boat to fly whileothers land on deck and walk around.

A scorpion bends over and plucks Brian’s glasses offhis face. It tries to put them on upside down. When theyfall, the scorpion picks them back up and tries again. As ifit wasn’t already weird-looking enough with a man’sbody, dragonfly wings, and a scorpion tail. Now, it looksaround with one cracked lens on its wire-rimmed glasses.

I feel oddly naked without my sword. I keep reachingfor the soft fur of my stuffed bear and remember that it’snot there any more. I sit between Mom and Clara, threeunarmed women surrounded by monsters.

Just a couple of months ago, tourists sat this boat withcameras and phones, taking photos, yelling at their kids,kissing in front of the city skyline. They probably roamedaround in their newly bought sweatshirts, totallyunprepared for the cold summer winds of San Francisco.

Now, there are hardly any children and none of themare running around. There are only a couple of older folksmixed in with the others, and only a quarter of the crowdis women. Everyone looks like they’ve gone too longwithout a shower or a good meal, and all our attention isfocused on the scorpions.

They leave us alone for now. Most of them are not asbeefy and broad-shouldered as I imagined monsters wouldbe. Some of them are outright scrawny. They’re not madeto muscle their prey. They’re designed to use their stingersas their main weapon of choice.

They all have tails that look like they’ve been onsteroids. Fat and muscular, unnaturally bulging, andgrotesque. If I look closely, I can see a clear drop ofvenom at the tip of each stinger, as if keeping the pipes inworking order.

One of the scorpions wears a pair of pants. But thepants are on backwards and hanging with the zipper open

to allow for the tail. There’s something about it thatbothers me but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

As the scorpion pulls up its pants with its all-too-human-looking hand, something glints. My stomachclenches in sick dread as I realize what it is.

It’s a wedding band.What is a wedding band doing on a monster’s hand?It must be just some shiny thing that it got from one of

its victims. Like an animal playing with a toy. Or maybe itdiscovered that rings were good for hitting, like brassknuckles.

Yeah, that must be it.And it’s pure coincidence that it’s on the ring finger.

IN A FEW MINUTES, Alcatraz looms in thedim light. I lean back as if I could make the boat slowdown. By the time we land, I’m trembling all over.

My imagination keeps wandering to what mighthappen to us here. I try to corral it back, but I’m notentirely successful at it.

The island seems to be a giant rock. The water isprobably hypothermia-cold, not to mention filled withsharks or thrashing scorpions or toothy demons from hell.

So this is how it all ends.The world destroyed, humans imprisoned, my family

scattered.

The thought makes me angry. I hope the anger burnsup all other feelings because it’s probably the only thingkeeping me on my feet and moving right now.

A lot of the prisoners are cringing and sobbing, notwanting to come out of the boat. People and animals aren’tthat different. We can all tell when we’re being led toslaughter.

The island dock is similar to the one on the mainland—spiky, dark, damp. The cold bay winds blow through myshirt, giving me goose bumps. I’m colder than thetemperature calls for. I brace myself to face what’scoming.

But nothing can prepare me for what’s happeningbeyond the dock.

SPOTLIGHTS BLAZE along the buildings,lighting up the walkway as we trudge onto the island.Everywhere I look, I see stone and concrete. Peeling paintand rust stains drip down the walls of the nearest building.

Four scorpions work near a shipping container thathas a chain mesh gate like the one on the mainland.

They grab glossy entrails and body parts frombuckets and toss them onto the concrete. The gore landsjust out of reach of the trapped humans in the metalcontainer.

The stench is unbearable. These people have beentrapped in that cage for way longer than I want to know. Ican tell not just by their stench but also by the fact that theyare stretching their emaciated arms to try to grab theentrails and chopped-up body parts just out of their reach.

These people make sobbing, groaning noises.Nothing aggressive, just desperate. Their arms are tooskinny, like they’re already dead but don’t quite realize ityet.

They can’t be meant to be turned into new monstersor even to be fed to them. They’re too abused, toounderfed. How hungry would you have to be to reach outfor raw, chopped body parts?

“Stupid as dirt in so many ways,” says a familiarvoice. “But they still have the devious, twisted instincts ofhumans.”

It’s Beliel, the demon. His stolen white wings spreadout behind him, a heavenly backdrop to his oversizedbody. He stands behind the scorpions who are tossing thechopped-up gore that’s plopping onto the ground.

A heart gets tossed onto a broken board, snagging ona giant splinter.

Beside Beliel stands an angel whose toffee-coloredhair and gray feathers are windblown. He wears a lightgray suit that quietly conveys taste and elegance.

Even without his trophy girls, I recognize ArchangelUriel, the politician. He’s the one who secretlyorchestrated Raffe’s wing switch to keep him from being acompetitive candidate in the upcoming angels’ election.As if that wasn’t enough to make me despise him, he likesto walk around with matching girls who are terrified ofhim.

“Are you referring to the locusts or their toys?”Uriel’s wings spread out partially behind him like a bodyhalo. In the soft light of the aerie hotel, his feathers lookedoff-white with a touch of gray, but now in the harsh light ofthe utility lights, his wings look gray with a touch ofmidnight.

Locusts?“The locusts,” says Beliel. “The humans are stupid as

rocks, too. But they’re too tortured to use instinctiveingenuity. The locusts thought this game up themselves,you know. I was impressed. As devious as any demonfrom hell.” He sounds almost proud.

He must mean the scorpion monsters. I alwaysimagined locusts to look like grasshoppers, not scorpions,so I don’t know why he calls them that.

“You’re sure the ones you trained will teach theothers?”

“Who can tell, eh? Their judgment is clouded, theirbrains have shrunk, they’re probably insane from themetamorphosis. Hard to predict what they’ll do, but thisbatch did get extra attention and do seem more capablethan the rest. They’re as close to a leader group as you’llget.”

A scorpion with a white streak in its hair gets tired ofthe game and walks up to the container of humans. Theforest of skeletal arms withdraws back through the chainmesh. The captives’ feet scrape the metal floor as they

shuffle away from the monster.The scorpion stands tall in front of the dim interior.

Then he tosses a bit of gore into the cage.The night is instantly filled with metallic scuffling,

animal grunting, and half-screams of frustration anddesperation.

The people inside are fighting each other for thebloody scraps. For all I know, it could have been one oftheir own who got dragged out and turned into torture bait.

“See what I mean?” Beliel sounds like a proud papa.I pick up my pace, wanting to get past the container

as soon as possible. But the others move at the samespeed, careful not to draw attention to themselves.

My arm is clamped in a viciously tight grip and I’myanked so hard that my neck feels like it’s about to snap. Ascorpion with greasy hair dripping down to its shoulderspulls me out of the herd.

The white-streaked one who threw the body parts tothe prisoners looks at me, interest lighting its face. Itwalks over to me.

Up close, its shoulders and thighs are massive. Itgrabs me out of the first scorpion’s grasp and drags mebehind it, holding both my wrists in one hand.

It’s headed for the torture container with its desperatevictims.

Skeletal arms reach through the metal mesh with theirunnaturally long fingers.

I can’t get enough air into my lungs and what I domanage to breathe in makes me gag. The stench up close isferocious.

I skid on something lumpy and slippery, but themonster’s grip is so tight that I stay upright.

My heart has practically stopped with the realizationthat I won’t be going up to the stone building, but instead,will be joining the tortured victims.

I drag my feet and resist. I struggle, trying to loosenone of the monster’s hands. But I’m no match for itsstrength.

A couple of steps before the opening, the scorpionthrows me up against the metal mesh.

I slam into it, grabbing the chains to keep myselfupright.

The second I hit, the darker shadows in the back ofthe box scuffle toward me.

Hunched with sharp angles accentuating arms andlegs, rags dragging on the floor, they shove each other outof the way to reach me as fast as they can.

A scream tears from my mouth as I frantically pushmyself back.

Arms reach out like a forest of bones sproutingthrough the chain mesh.

They grab my hair, my face, my clothes.I thrash and scream, trying not to see their skeletal

faces, their mangy hair, their bloodied nails.

I twist and yank, desperate to get out of their grasp.There are a lot of them, but they’re weak, barely standingon their feet as I pull away.

White Streak makes a series of screechy noises thatsound suspiciously like a laugh. It thinks this is funny.

It grabs me and drags me toward the stream of peoplecoming from the ferry.

It never intended to dump me into the torture bin. Itjust wanted to tease the prisoners and, I guess, me.

I’ve never looked forward to killing anything before.But I’m certainly looking forward to killing this one.

WE WALK UP the paved path toward the mainbuilding, which sits at the top of the island. Above us,swarms of scorpions fly in what looks like massive chaos.There are so many of them, they actually create wind thatblows in unnaturally changing directions. I know fromwhat I saw earlier that there’s a practice pattern to theirflight, but from here, it looks and feels as if we’re in themiddle of a giant insect’s nest.

There’s not a regular angel in sight. This can’t betheir new aerie. From what I’ve seen, angels prefer thefiner things in life, and Alcatraz isn’t exactly a high-classresort. This must be some kind of human processingcenter.

I look around to see how Clara and Mom are doing.

Clara is easy to spot with her jerky skin and shriveledbody but my mother is nowhere to be found. When Clarasees me searching, she looks around too, seeminglysurprised to find that my mom is not beside her.

No one seems to be looking for a missing prisoner.I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

I can’t hear a thing beyond the insect buzzing of thescorpion wings, but our guards make it clear where theywant us to go. We climb toward the stone building on thegiant rock that is Alcatraz, following the path walked byso many prisoners of the past.

The weird wind whipsaws my hair all around myhead, reflecting what I feel inside.

ONCE WE enter the building, the noise and windquiet down. Instead, there’s a low moan that echoes off thewalls. Not just the moan of one person but the collectivemoans of a building full of people.

I am in hell.I’ve heard about the horrid conditions of some

foreign prisons, places where human rights are a distantdream seen only on television or read about by universitystudents. What I didn’t realize is that the guards, the awfulconditions, and being trapped are only part of the hell.

The rest of it is in your head. The stuff you imagineabout the screams you hear from parts unknown. Theimage you make up of the face of the woman who criesnon-stop a few cells from you. The story you piecetogether incorporating the gurgling, clanging, and the high-

pitched sound of what can only be some kind of electricsawing.

We’re crammed into old prison cells decorated withrust and streaky paint. Only, they don’t hold one or two ofus per cell the way they were designed to. It’s standingroom only.

Good thing the cot takes up space, otherwise, thescorpions probably would have crushed more of us inhere. As it is, a few of us can sit on the cot at a time,which lets the injured take a break and will come in handywhen we’re calm enough to rotate for sleep.

As if this place isn’t hellish enough, an alarm goesoff at random intervals, echoing through the building andputting us all on edge. Also, every few hours, a group ofus gets marched down the hallway, which is even morenerve-wracking.

No one seems to know what happens to those whoare taken away, but none of them come back. The guardswho escort these groups are a couple of humans with acouple of scorpions as backup. The human guards arestoic and talk as little as possible, which makes them evenscarier.

Over these fear cycles, I lose track of time as I dozein and out. I don’t know if we’ve been here for hours ordays.

When a door clanks, we know another group isleaving.

As they march past us, I recognize a few of the faces.One is the father who was separated from his son. Hiseyes search frantically for his boy among those of us leftbehind bars. When he finds him, tears stream down hisface.

The boy is in the cell across from mine. The otherprisoners gather around him as he shakes with tears,watching his father march away from him.

One of the men starts to sing “Amazing Grace” in abeautiful, deep baritone. It’s a song whose words many ofus don’t know, including me, but we all recognize it in ourhearts. I hum along with everyone else as the doomedgroup walks past us.

CIGARETTES. Who knew they’d be such aproblem at the end of the world?

There are a few smokers in our cell, and one of thempassed them around. We’re jammed together so no matterhow hard the smokers try, they can’t help but blow intosomeone’s face. In California, you might as well spit onsomeone as blow smoke on them.

“Seriously, can you please put that out?” a guy asks.“Don’t you think it’s bad enough in here without youpolluting the air?”

“Sorry. If there was ever a time when I needed acigarette, this is it.” The woman squashes out her cigarette

against the wall. “A double latte sounds great too.”Two other prisoners continue smoking. One of them

has tattoos on his shoulders and along his arms. Thedesigns are intricate and colorful and were clearly done inthe World Before.

There were gangs here in the Bay Area before theangels came. Not many and they stayed in their smallterritories, but they were here. They’re probably thereason the street gangs grew so fast. They were alreadyorganized and established. They were the first to take overthe stores and then they started recruiting.

My bet is that this guy was one of the original gangmembers. He gives off an air of the ‘hood that SiliconValley engineers just can’t copy, regardless of whatthey’ve done on the streets in the past couple of months.

“What you worried about, vegan boy?” asks Mr.Tattoo. “Lung cancer?” He leans over to the other guy andfake-coughs in his face, exploding smoke all over him.

Everybody tenses up. People shift out of his way, butthey can’t get far. We’re trapped so closely that if there’sa fight, we’re all going down. It’d be like being caught in ablender. No matter what you do, you can’t help but getsucked in.

As if the tension isn’t thick enough, the alarm goes offagain, scraping our nerves.

You’d think that if there was a real gang member inthe group, everyone else would back off. But you’d be

wrong.The valley isn’t just filled with mild-mannered, smart

engineers. According to my dad, who was once a mild-mannered engineer before he became the most educatedconvenience store clerk around, the valley is pepperedwith high-risk, high-octane CEOs and venture capitalistswith mega-alpha personalities. Movers and shakers.Entrepreneurs on speed. The kind that the President of theUnited States came to visit for dinner.

Now, we live in a world where those Ivy-league-educated mega-alphas are jammed up behind bars with thelikes of street-schooled gang members like Mr. Tattoo,arguing over who has the right to smoke. Welcome to theWorld After.

Mr. Alpha is a big, blond, thirty-something guy whoprobably worked out regularly back when gyms wereworth visiting. I’ll bet he has a charming smile when hewants, but right now, he looks like his nerves have beenstretched about a foot farther than they can go, and the onlything keeping him from breaking is his sheer willpower.

“I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” says Alpha. “Look,we all need to work together to survive this.” He grindsout the words between his teeth, clearly trying to keepthings cool.

“So I should put out my goddamn smoke for you? Pissoff. No one’s allergic to smoke. They just don’t like it.”Tattoo takes a deep drag off his cigarette.

The third smoker quietly stubs out his cigarette,looking like he hopes no one notices him.

“Put the cigarette out!” There’s real command inAlpha’s voice that can be heard even over the shriekingalarm. This is a guy who’s used to being heard. A guy whoused to matter.

Tattoo flicks his still-glowing stub at Alpha. For amoment, everyone relaxes. But then Tattoo pulls out afresh cigarette and lights it.

The alarm shuts off but the plunge into silence feelsworse.

Alpha’s face and neck turn a bright red. He shovesthe other guy, looking like he doesn’t care if he gets beat toa twitching pulp. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is aneasier out for him than what the angels have in store for us.

The problem is, he’s making that decision for the restof us too. A fight in a cell the size of a coffin means awhole lot of injuries for everyone at a time when we can’tafford to have any.

People start backing up.I’m in the front corner, beside Clara. Bodies are

already jostling us against the bars. If the panic gets aimedthis way, we could be crushed against the metal bars. Wewon’t be killed but bones could be broken. Not a goodtime for broken bones.

In the center of the cell, Mr. Tattoo whales on Alpha.Alpha, though, is not to be underestimated.

He grabs a guy’s jacket and swings the bottom of thezipper at Tattoo’s eyes. It hits a woman in the face.

Tattoo swings his arm back for a sloppy hit and hiselbow smacks into an old man’s neck.

The man falls back into Clara, making her bang herhead against the bars. I’m trying to mind my own business,but this is not going to end well for any of us.

I weave my way to the fighters and grab Tattoo’sshoulders.

I jam my knee into the back of his. I’m careful tomake sure that I shove his knee straight forward so that Idon’t knock it out. A broken knee in our situation is adeath sentence.

As he collapses down to my height, I pull hisshoulders toward me and grab his head in a sleeper hold. Igrip his forehead with one arm and clamp his neck withthe other.

I squeeze my arms, letting him know I mean it. I’mnot trying to choke off his air. Choking off the blood to hisbrain is faster. He has three to five seconds before heloses consciousness.

“Relax,” I say. He instantly does. This man has beenin enough fights to know when it’s over.

Alpha boy, on the other hand, doesn’t know when tostop. By the look of his bulging eyes and crimson face, hisfear and frustration are still slamming around inside him.He swings his leg back, kicking someone else in the

process, and gets ready to kick Tattoo like a soccer ball asI hold him.

“You land that kick and I swear to God I’ll let himeat you alive.” I lower my voice and try to sound ascommanding as I can. But Mr. Tattoo is most likelythinking about how skinny and short my arms are. It’sprobably registering right about now that my voice isfemale.

I’ll be in a world of hurt if I don’t establish controlwhile he’s on his knees. Because when he’s towering overme and looking down at the top of my head, he might startgetting ideas.

So I do something I would never do in the WorldBefore.

Even though he gave in, I choke him out anyway. Hisbody crumples to the floor, head listing.

He’ll be out for a few seconds, just long enough forme to take care of Alpha boy. And when these two comeback to their senses, lying helpless on the floor with metowering above them, they’ll get the message loud andclear: I am dominant here. You live or die at my mercyand I say when you fight and when you don’t.

It all sounds good in my head.Only it doesn’t play out that way.

I’M  ABOUT to grab Alpha when we’re hit by aforce so hard I can only describe it as a cannon full of icepellets pounding into us. The force slams me back againstthe wall. But unlike a cannon shot, it doesn’t stop.

It takes me a second to realize that it’s a bruisingspray of water shooting from a fire hose. So icy andintense, it freezes the air in my lungs.

When it finally stops, I am a battered piece of wetcloth lying limp on the floor.

Rough hands grab my arms, and I’m jerked up anddragged out of the cell. In my strained fight for air, Ivaguely notice that men with grim faces also drag outTattoo and Alpha.

I stagger up so that I’m shuffling beside my captors.It’s better than having my arms pulled out of their sockets.

Once it’s clear that I’ll walk without resisting, one of theguys lets go of me and helps the two pulling Tattoo. He’sbecome conscious and is struggling in fear and confusion.

My guard walks up to Tattoo and slams a punch intohis belly while the other two guards hold him still. I cringein sympathy. After that, we all shuffle down the center hallwithout resistance.

The guards lead us into a brick passageway withpeeling paint, and we pass through a metal door. A fadedsign says:

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

The door opens to a narrow stairwell that makes ahollow metallic clang as we walk down. The space belowfeels industrial, almost factory-like. A lattice of giantwater droplets hangs from the ceiling almost to the floor.

As we get closer, I get a better look. There are thingscurled inside the water droplets.

People.Naked and curled in fetal positions. Unconscious and

suspended in the water.There’s something familiar and horrifying about

them.I keep expecting to see one sucking his thumb or

twitching but none of them are actually doing those things.“What’s this?” asks a man in the middle of the room,

glancing our way. He wears a flannel shirt over jeans and

holds a clipboard in his hand. With curly brown hair andhazel eyes, he looks like a college student doing research.I’d assume he’d be an okay guy in any other setting exceptthis one.

“Troublemakers,” says my guard.“Take them to the back,” says the distracted man with

the clipboard. “The last row could use a little help.”Tattoo, who is now walking on his own without

causing trouble, is the first to be led into the field of waterdroplets. Alpha’s guard pulls him along next. Until now,my guard has let me walk on my own without touching me.Now, he grips my arm as if afraid I’ll make a run for it.

“Which ones, Doc?” asks my guard.“Any of them will do so long as they’re in the last

row,” says Doc as he walks past us toward an office witha window overlooking the droplets.

We enter the water-droplet matrix. The first rowcontains people.

As we walk to the back of the room, the peopleinside the droplets begin to change. It’s like seeing a time-lapsed video of fetal development.

By a third of the way into the matrix, they have tails.By halfway back, they’ve started to grow gossamer

wings.By two-thirds of the way, they look recognizably like

scorpion monsters.The cavernous room is filled with scorpions in

various stages of development.Hundreds of them.And they all start from humans.When we reach the last row, the scorpions look fully

formed, complete with hair down to their shoulders andteeth that have gone from human’s to lion’s teeth. The onesin this last row are shifting, alert, and watching as weapproach.

This lab is several generations ahead of what I sawin the aerie basement. It’s more systematic, with thefetuses looking more robust and dangerous. How many ofthese scorpion factories are there?

Tattoo begins struggling against his guards again.There are three of them, and for all his muscles andattitude, Tattoo’s fighting skills are sloppy and untrained.

He yanks his guards, the muscles on his neck andarms straining against their hold. The guards are about toshove him into a droplet when he jerks unexpectedly,knocking one of the guard’s elbows into the droplet.

The thing in the water moves so fast I’m not surewhat’s happening.

One second, the guard is holding Tattoo’s shoulder ashis elbow breaches the water.

The next second, the guard is halfway into the dropletwith his legs kicking the air and the water turning bloody.

We all stare in awe as the guard defies gravity—andI don’t know how many other laws of physics—by hanging

there, partway in, partway out. Inside the droplet, themonster pumps venom into the guard’s neck while it suckson his face. Clouds of blood swirl around them in theimpossible droplet that somehow maintains its shape andcontains the liquid despite being punctured by the guard’sbody.

Tattoo’s eyes are huge as he realizes what’s in storefor him. He looks at me and Alpha. He probably sees thesame expression in our faces.

After him, we’re next.Alpha nods to Tattoo like they’ve just agreed on

something. I guess there’s nothing like a grisly impendingdeath to make people overlook their differences. Theygrab one of the remaining guards still holding Tattoo.Ganging up, they shove his head into another droplet.

The scorpion in the droplet slithers around in thewater to latch onto him. The guard frantically pulls back,instinctively pushing his hands against the droplet forleverage.

His hands slip right into the water.Then, he can’t get them out either.His back, neck, and arms strain to pull himself out.His feet slide forward. But not an inch of him comes

back out from the droplet.The guard begins convulsing. Every muscle of his

body trembles with his muffled scream as he pushesdesperately against the scorpion fetus.

I can’t look any more.The rest of the guards, no longer outnumbering us,

run. Two run to the back door while my guard runs in theother direction.

The gurgling of the bubbles and scuffling of thevictim’s shoes against the floor grates against my rawemotions. But before long, both victims quiet down as theybecome paralyzed.

The place is suddenly too quiet.“Now what?” asks Tattoo. Despite his muscles, he

looks like a lost little boy.We all look around at the forest of monsters

suspended in droplets.“We get out of here,” says Alpha.The hissing of a scorpion comes from the back door.We run through the matrix toward the front stairs,

careful not to bump into any of the droplets.

A RUMBLING echoes through the cavernous room.Rows of droplets sway, threatening to fall. I hate to thinkabout what will happen if they drop. In my mind, the wateris already splashing on the floor and the monster fetusesare uncurling as we run past.

The structure on the ceiling that dangles the rows ofdroplets slowly shifts back. Is that water splashing behindus or is that my imagination?

The matrix moves back one row, then stops.The eerie feeling of running through transparent

wombs makes me feel even more surreal as the scorpionfetuses change in every row back to humans. By the timewe reach the new first row of empty droplets, a hollowclanging of footsteps echoes down the stairs ahead of us.We skid to a stop, looking around.

The only place left to go is the raised office thatoverlooks the monster matrix. We run up the few steps tothe office and rush in.

Doc, the guy in the flannel shirt and jeans, looks upfrom taking notes on his clipboard in front of an ancientTV set.

Alpha grabs a pen with one hand and grabs Doc’shair with the other. He points the pen near Doc’s eye,ready to stab.

“I’m going to poke this through your eye unless youget those monsters off our backs,” whispers Alpha. I stillthink he used to be a company guy, but he looks like hereally means it. Maybe life in an office is tougher than Ithought.

“One human is as good as another to them,” says Docstaring at the pen. “They won’t be searching for you.”

As if to prove his point, he shifts his eyes toward thelarge window that overlooks the lab. A group is cominginto the factory below us. Several scorpions usher in aline of dirty, naked people.

In front of them is the new row of empty waterdroplets.

One of the human minions stands in front of the group.We can hear him below us through the open door as hesays, “It’ll be better for you to just do as you’re told.” Heactually sounds like he believes it and is doing them afavor by letting them in on a secret. “Otherwise, this could

be you.” He nods to two of the other minions.They grab the nearest person and drag him down a

few rows, where they shove him into a droplet.Even from here, I can hear his gurgled scream of

muffled terror. The half-formed scorpion jerks as if tryingto sting its prey with the stinger it doesn’t yet have, then itlatches on with its still human mouth.

I look away while I can.The naked people in front of the door stand frozen,

both mesmerized and horrified.“Your choice,” says the guy who I assume is the

foreman. “You can be like him.” He points to the scorpionvictim. “Or you can choose to step into one of these waterthingies without any trouble. The first fifteen people tovolunteer to go into the water get it.”

Everyone steps forward.The foreman starts picking people at random and they

slip into their watery cages.“How do I breathe?” asks a large man whose body is

already in the droplet with his head sticking out.One of the human minions shoves the man’s head the

rest of the way in without answering.The question seems to occur to all of them as soon as

they’re in the water. I guess the whole situation was soweird and surreal that the victims must have figured thesedetails would be taken care of for them. Or maybe theyjust assumed they could pop their heads out to breathe.

When they realize that they’re trapped and can’t pushback out, their faces shift from anxiety to panic.

The front row of droplets swings and jerkserratically as the new inhabitants freak inside their waterycages. Bubbles fill the droplets as the last of the victims’precious air seeps out of their mouths. A few screamunderwater. Muffled echoes bounce off the walls of thelab.

The remaining people back away, now clearlyregretting their decision. But the minions grab them andshove them into the droplets. It’s an easier job for thembecause I realize now that all the first people they pickedwere the biggest and strongest of the victims.

By the time it becomes obvious that this is nobargain, only the weakest of the group are left.

TATTOO QUIETLY closes the office door,shutting out the noise below.

Alpha yanks Doc’s head back, still holding the pen tohis eye. “How can you live with this on your conscience?”growls Alpha.

“Asks the man who’s threatening to stab a fellowhuman being in the eye,” says Doc.

Tattoo leans over Doc. “Your human privileges arebeing revoked, asshole.”

The office has a desk, a chair, and old-fashioned belljars of flesh-colored blobs that I don’t want to look at. Iwouldn’t be surprised if this stuff was used back whenAlcatraz was a real jail for real criminals.

“I’m a prisoner here, just like you,” says Doc throughgritted teeth. “I do what they make me do, just like you.

And just like you, I. Have. No. Choice.”“Yeah,” says Alpha, “only unlike us, you’re neither

monster Gerber food nor bio-mass for whatever thesethings are.”

Behind Doc, there are several rectangular boxes thesize of books. Each one has a picture taped to it with aname written below. I’m about to scan past them when oneof them catches my eye.

The felt-tip letters on one of the boxes read PAIGE.The grainy picture is as bad as it gets, but the dark eyesand pixie face are unmistakable.

“What are these?” My heart is thumping fast, tellingme to forget about it.

“The human race is being wiped out and you thinkI’m happy about it?” asks Doc.

“What’s this?” I hold up the box that says PAIGE.“Let me guess, you’re bravely fighting to free us,”

says Alpha.“I’m doing what I can.”“Behind the scenes, no doubt,” says Alpha.“Way behind the scenes, bro,” says Tattoo.“Hey!” I say. “What is this?”They finally look at me holding up the little box with

Paige’s name and picture.“It’s a video,” says Doc.The alarm bells shriek again, echoing off the walls.“The hell is that?” asks Tattoo. “And why does it

keep going off?”“There’s some crazy lady on the loose,” says Doc.

“Keeps propping open emergency exits. Triggers thealarm. Are you going to let me go?”

Well, at least my mom must be doing okay.“I want to see this video,” I say.“Seriously?” asks Tattoo. “Want popcorn too?”“I think that’s my sister.” I lift the video. “I need to

see this.”“Paige is your sister?” asks Doc. He seems to really

notice me for the first time.It sends a jolt through me to know that this man

knows Paige.Doc tries to come to me but Alpha yanks his hair

back.“Stab me in the eye or let me go.” Doc busts out of

Alpha’s grip, looking ready to punch him.“I need to see this video.”“If that little girl was your sister,” says Doc, “I’m

afraid she died in the aerie attack.”“No, she didn’t,” I say.He blinks at me in surprise. “How do you know?”“I was just with her yesterday, or however long it’s

been since I got here.”Doc’s eyes focus so intensely on me that it’s as if I’m

the only one in Doc’s world right now. “She didn’t attackyou?”

“She’s my sister.” As if that answers the question.“Where is she now?”“I think she came here. We followed.”The alarm turns off and we all relax our shoulders a

little.“Don’t got time to watch a video, sweetheart, are you

crazy?” asks Tattoo. “Take it with you.”“It’s Betamax,” says Doc. “This is probably the only

Betamax player left in the Bay Area. It’s ancient, likeeverything else that was left around here.”

“What’s Betamax?” I ask.“Obsolete video format,” says Alpha. “Older than

you.”“So you can’t see it anywhere but on this machine,”

says Doc.“What’s your plan?” I ask Alpha and Tattoo. “Is there

any way I can watch this and meet you guys?”They look at each other, and it’s clear neither of them

has a plan.“We take him captive and walk out of here,” says

Alpha.“Then we all die,” says Doc. “I mean no more to the

locusts than you do.”“Locusts?”“Those things.” He nods toward the window. “That’s

what the angels call them. Not sure why. These things willbe the end of humanity.” He fades into his own world for a

minute as he looks out over the scorpion factory, thenseems to remember us. “Look, if you want to escape,tonight is the time to do it. There’s something scheduledthat will have all the locusts flying off on a mission.”

“And we believe you why?” asks Tattoo. He’s founda letter opener from somewhere and is checking out theedge.

“Because I’m a human being and so are you. Thatputs us on the same team, like it or not.”

“How long will the creatures be gone?” asks Alpha.“Don’t know.”“What time will they leave?”“I only know what I just told you. Tonight will be

your best and only shot.”“If they’re gone, we could free everybody,” I say,

thinking of Clara and Mom and everyone who sang“Amazing Grace” when those people were marched totheir deaths. Now I know where they went.

“Hard to sneak out with everybody in tow,” saysAlpha.

“There’s no sneaking with that boat,” I say. “Unlessyou plan to swim with the sharks to get out of here. Themore people, the better chance that some of us will makeit.”

“If everyone’s running,” says Alpha, “it’s guaranteeda lot of us won’t make it.”

“If we leave people behind, it’s guaranteed that none

of them will make it,” I say.“Girl’s got a point,” says Tattoo.Alpha takes a big breath and lets it out slowly.“Cell keys are in the guard room,” says Doc.

“Convince the human guards that you’ll free everyone,including them. They’ll get the keys, spread the word, andunlock the cells for you.”

“You’re lying,” says Tattoo.“I’m not. You think there’s a single person here who

wants to be here? You think we wouldn’t all bust out if wecould? You just need to convince them their chances ofsurvival are greater with you than against you. That’s thepart that’s going to be tougher than you think.”

“Why aren’t you all leaving tonight if the guards aregone?” asks Alpha. “Why wait for us to break everyoneout?”

“Because there’s only one boat. And when theyleave, it’ll be docked in San Francisco, not here. This isAlcatraz, gentlemen. They don’t need guards. They havethe water.”

“Can we swim it?” asks Tattoo.“Maybe. For the right athlete who has trained for it

and isn’t afraid of sharks. Someone in a wet suit andswimming during the day, with a backup team on a boat.Know anyone like that?”

“There’s a way out,” says Tattoo. “Think, little man.Or I’ll make sure you’re the first one to get thrown into the

water tonight.”Doc watches me. I can almost see the gears in his

head cranking into overdrive. “I’ve heard the boat driveris locked up on the pier when the boat docks there. I mightbe able to get this girl onboard.” He nods toward me.“Maybe she can free the driver and talk him into bringingthe boat back.”

“I’ll go,” says Tattoo. “I’ll take one for the team.”“I’m sure you will but it needs to be her,” says Doc.“Why?”“There’s a team here recruiting females for the aerie.

When they leave, I might be able to make sure she’sincluded. So unless you’re a young female, you can’t havea ride out.”

Tattoo assesses me. He’s trying to decide if I’ll boltthe second I get to the mainland.

“My mom is here and so is my friend,” I say. “I’ll doeverything I can to help with the escape.”

The guys look at each other again as if having a silentconversation.

“How do we know the ferry driver is going to riskhis life coming back for us?” asks Alpha. “Is his mom heretoo?”

“She’ll just have to be persuasive,” says Doc.“And if she isn’t?” asks Tattoo.“Then we’ll find someone else to drive the ferry,”

says Doc confidently.

“If you’re so sure, why haven’t you done thisalready?” asks Alpha.

“This is the first time all the creatures and angelshave been scheduled to leave. What makes you think wewouldn’t have done it without you?”

The guys nod. “You up for this?” Alpha asks me.“Yeah. I’ll drive the boat back myself if I have to.”“It’d be great if the boat doesn’t sink on its way

here,” says Alpha.“Right,” I say. “I’ll talk someone into it who knows

what they’re doing.” I sound more confident than I feel.The alarm shrieks again, echoing off the walls and

assaulting our ears.“Maybe you can get that woman to help you,” says

Doc. “She can show you all the exits.”“Go,” I say. “Get the cell doors open when the time

comes. I’ll free the boat captain on the mainland.”Tattoo and Alpha eye each other, both looking

unconvinced. The alarm shuts off again.“Unless you have a better plan?” says Doc.The men nod to each other. “You better be telling the

truth, Doc,” says Tattoo. “Or you’ll be shark bait bymorning. You get me?”

Alpha looks like he’s about to ask if I’ll be all right,but then, maybe remembering where we are, he turns toleave.

“If you see that emergency-exit woman,” I call after

him, “tell her Penryn sent you. Take care of her, okay? Ithink that’s my mom.”

Tattoo gives Doc one last glare and leaves.

“WERE YOU really telling them the truth?” I ask.“Mostly,” says Doc as he inserts the video into the

rectangular machine below the TV. They both lookancient. Even though the screen is small, the rest of the TVis fat and heavy looking, like something out of one of mydad’s old photos. “It was the fastest way to get them out ofhere so we can talk about what really matters.”

“And what’s that?”“Your sister.”“Why is she so important?”“She probably isn’t.” He glances at me sideways,

giving me the impression that he thinks otherwise. “ButI’m desperate.”

He’s not making much sense, but I don’t care as longas I can see the video. He presses a button on the machine

below the TV set.“That thing really works?”He scoffs. “What I wouldn’t give for a computer.” He

fiddles with the dials and buttons on the old TV.“It’s not like anyone is stopping you. Computers litter

the Bay Area, ready for the taking.”“Angels aren’t exactly a fan of man’s machines. They

prefer playing with life and the creation of new and hybridspecies. Although I get the impression they’re not reallysupposed to be doing that.” He says this last part in amumble, like he’s talking to himself. “I’ve snuck someequipment in but the infrastructure on this rock was farfrom state-of-the-art to begin with.”

“The stuff out there looks pretty cutting edge.” I nodtoward the window. “Way more than what was in theaerie basement.”

Doc raises his eyebrows. “You saw the aeriebasement?”

I nod.He cocks his head like a curious dog. “Yet, here you

are. Alive to tell me about it.”“Believe me, I’m as surprised as anyone.”“The aerie lab was our first,” he says. “I still clung to

the old ways back then—the human ways. It required testtubes, electricity, and computers, but they wouldn’t let mehave a lot of what I needed. The angels’ resistance tohuman technology hampered me in ways that made that lab

into some kind of 1930s Frankenstein basement.”He presses PLAY on the video machine. “Since then,

I’ve grown to like the angelic ways. They’re more elegantand effective.”

A grainy, gray picture of a dismal room appears onthe screen. A cot, a bedside table, a steel chair. It’s hardto tell if it used to be a jail cell for solitary confinement orsleeping quarters for a sad bureaucrat.

“What is this?” I ask.“Somewhere along the line, somebody installed a

surveillance system on this rock. Not surprising,considering it was a busy tourist attraction. I added soundin some of the rooms. The angels obviously don’t knowthey’re being watched, so don’t go around announcing it.”

On the screen, the metal door of the room slams open.Two shirtless angels shuffle in holding a giant betweenthem. Even through the grainy video, I recognize thedemon Beliel. He has a bloody bandage wrapped aroundhis stomach.

Behind them is another angel who looks familiar. Ican’t tell the color of his wings in the grainy video but I’mguessing it’s burnt orange. I remember him from the nightPaige was taken, the night he and his buddies cut Raffe’swings. He holds little Paige in one arm like a sack ofpotatoes.

Her face is uncut and her legs dangle, atrophied anduseless. She looks tiny and helpless. This must be the night

Paige was kidnapped.“Is that your sister?” asks Doc.I nod, unable to say anything.Burnt angel tosses Paige toward the shadowy corner

of the room.“You’re sure you want to see this?” asks Doc.“I do.” I don’t. I want to throw up at the thought of

anything that might have happened while I wasn’t aroundto protect her.

But I have no choice. I’m compelled to watch the restof the video.

THE BLURRY blob flying into the corner resolvesinto my sister again when she lands with a thud. I cringe asshe bounces off the wall and crumples on her useless legs.

A tiny squeal of pain escapes from her, but no one inthe room seems to notice.

Burnt angel has already forgotten about her as he liftsBeliel’s legs. They toss him onto the cot. Beliel comesdown onto the squeaking springs. He looks dead. I wish itwere true.

Behind them, my baby sister drags herself further intothe shadowy corner and cringes there. She pulls up herlegs with her hands to curl them against her chest in a fetalposition as she watches the angels with huge, terrifiedeyes.

Beliel’s unconscious head lolls at an uncomfortable

angle against the metal bar that serves as a headboard. Allthey’d have to do is pull him down a little and he could liein relative comfort. But they don’t.

Another angel comes in with a plate of sandwichesand a large glass of water. He lays the food and water onthe bedside table. While he does that, two of the angelsexit, leaving Burnt and the delivery guy.

“Not so bossy now, is he?” says Burnt.“I wonder how deep that cut went into his stomach

muscles?” says the one who brought in the sandwiches.“You think he can reach the food?”

Burnt casually pulls the rickety table just out ofBeliel’s reach. “Not any more.”

The angels give each other sly grins. “We broughtfood and water like we’re supposed to. Is it our fault if hecan’t sit up and reach it?”

Burnt curls his lip like he wants to kick Beliel. “He’sgot to be the bossiest, nastiest, most self-important rejectI’ve ever had to work with.”

“I’ve worked with worse.”“Who?”“You.” The angel laughs as he shuts the door behind

them as they leave.Page huddles in the dark, apparently completely

forgotten. She must be getting hungry and thirsty herself.If she could walk, she could have snuck over and

snagged a sandwich. But without her wheelchair, she

would have had to slowly drag herself across the floor,grab it, and drag herself back. It could be done but I cansee why she wouldn’t try. It’s hard to feel like you cansteal something when you can’t run.

The video fades out.When it turns back on, there’s light coming into the

room, probably from a small window somewhere offcamera. Time has passed. It’s hard to guess how much.

A painful growl rises to a howl of angry frustration.Beliel is awake and trying to sit up. He flops back onto thecot with a disgusted grunt.

He lies there panting, seemingly unaware of Paigestill curled on the stone floor in the corner. Bright bloodstains the bandages wrapped around his waist. He turnshis head and stares at the water. He reaches out withoutleaning forward. The table with the sandwiches is justbeyond reach.

However hungry and thirsty he is, Paige must behungrier and thirstier. She’s tiny. She doesn’t have muchstored up.

Beliel drops his hand and slams it against the cot. Hegrunts in anger and pain as the motion tears at his wound.

He lies back, trying to stay still. He gulps a dry gulpand looks at the glass of water on the table.

He takes a deep breath as if to brace himself andreaches out again. This time, he manages to stretch a littlefarther but not far enough. He pants through gritted teeth as

he inches forward toward the water. The pain must beenormous. If it had been anyone else, I would have feltsorry for him.

He gives up with a frustrated grunt and slumps backdown. His face is contorted in pain.

Paige must have moved or made a noise because hesuddenly glares into the corner.

“What are you doing here?”Paige shrinks back against the wall.“Did they send you here to spy on me?”She shakes her head.“Get out.” He practically spits out the words. “Wait.

Make yourself useful and bring me the water andsandwiches from that table.”

Paige stares at him in fear. Poor baby. A part of mewants to shut the video off. Whatever happened happened.My watching it won’t change anything.

But I’m mesmerized by this window into my sister’spast. If she had to go through this because I wasn’t there toprotect her, then I don’t deserve to be protected fromwatching what she went through.

“Do it now!” Beliel bellows at her. He’s so loud andforceful that I jump.

Paige shrinks back even more.Then, she lies on the concrete floor and drags herself

toward him. Her eyes look huge and her pant legs liealmost empty as they drag.

“WHAT’S WRONG with you? Are you broken?”“No. I just can’t walk like other people.” She puts

her arm out and drags herself forward a few more inches.“That means you’re broken.”She stops on the hard floor, propped on her elbows.

“It means I move in a different way.”“Yeah, like crawling on the floor like a worm. Show

me, Little Worm. Entertain me. Crawl over here and I’lllet you have some of my water.”

I want to punch my fist through the TV screen at him.Where were you when she needed you?My little sister looks at the water and takes a dry

gulp.“I can see you want it. The thirst is probably cracking

your throat right now.” His own voice sounds dry and

cracked. “Soon, you’ll get a headache and start feelingdizzy. Later, your tongue will swell and every instinct youhave will be whispering at you to bite it so you can drinkyour own blood. Ever been thirsty enough to want to kill aman for his cup of water? No? You’ll know that feelingsoon.”

He touches the bloody bandage as if wanting to sharethe pain. “Come over here, Little Worm. Show me how thebroken and abandoned ‘walk’ in a different way, and I’llgive you something to drink.”

“I’m not abandoned.”Beliel scoffs. “Name one person who didn’t abandon

you.”She looks at him with her wide eyes and pixie face.

“My sister.”“Really? Then where is she?”“On her way here. She’ll come and get me.”“That’s not what she said.”“You talked to her?” The hope in her face breaks my

heart.“Sure, I talked to her. Who do you think gave you to

me?”I clench my fist so hard my knuckles feel ready to

split.“You lie.”“It’s the truth. She said she feels bad about it, but she

can’t handle the responsibility of taking care of you any

more.”“You’re lying.” Her voice wavers. “She didn’t say

that.”“She’s exhausted. So tired of waking up every

morning, knowing she has to find food for you, carry you,wash you, do everything for you. She tried, but you’re sucha burden.”

All the strength drains out of me and I have to staggerback and lean on the wall to stay up.

“They’re all like that.” Beliel’s voice is notunfriendly. “In the end, they always abandon us. No matterhow much we love them or how much we do for them.We’re never good enough. We’re the rejects, you and I.The abandoned.”

“You’re a liar.” Her face crumples and her wordsblur. She hiccups as she cries, lying there on the stonefloor, utterly helpless. Her tone almost begs for thismonster to comfort her.

My chest feels like there’s a heavy weight on it, and Ihave trouble breathing.

“You’ll see. Nothing will ever be given to us freelythe way it is for other people. Not love, not respect, noteven friendship. The only way we’ll get any of that is toput them all in their rightful place beneath us. The lastthing we can afford is to be helpless and weak. You haveto be strong and beat them into submission. And if they begand behave, then maybe we’ll let them be our lap dogs.

That’s the closest outsiders like us will ever come tofeeling wanted.”

It’s bad enough that he’s crushing the fragile hopes ofan innocent seven-year-old. But what kills me is that weproved him right. The image of her tied and yanked like awild animal will be burned forever into my memory.

“Would you like some water?” Beliel’s voice isneutral. Not nice but not overly cruel either.

My sister gulps and tastes her parched lips with hertongue. Desperately thirsty even though she’s crying.

“Crawl over to me, Little Worm, and I’ll give yousome.”

She lies still on the floor with her upper body restingon her forearms. She looks at him with distrust. Iabsolutely dread her falling for his game, and yet there’s apart of me that wants her to go to him because she needs todrink.

Paige slowly puts her arm out and drags herselflaboriously. Once, twice, until she gets a slow rhythmcrawling across the room. Her dead and dried-up legsdrag behind her.

Beliel claps in a slow beat. “Bravo, Little Worm.Bravo. Such a miniature likeness of your kind. Youmonkeys are so cleverly desperate to do whatever it takesto survive. Compared to your people and the things someof them will do, I’m practically a nice guy.”

Paige reaches the table that holds the plate of

sandwiches and glass of water. She crawls up the metalchair that sits beside it.

“I didn’t say you could have that,” Beliel growls. “Itold you to come to me, not to the table.” He starts to leanforward in anger but eases back in pain with his hand onhis bleeding stomach, letting out a deep breath.

She reaches out to the glass, looking at the water withobvious longing and thirst.

“Of course, you’re just like the rest.” His lips sneer.“There isn’t a creature alive who looks out for anyone buthimself. Even a little worm like you. So you learned alesson from your sister, did you? The only thing thatmatters in the end is your own survival. It’s what humansand cockroaches are best at.”

Paige looks at the water. Then at Beliel. A battle israging inside her, and I know her well enough to knowwhat she’s debating.

“Don’t do it,” I whisper. “Take care of yourselffirst.” Just for once.

Without taking a sip, she holds out the glass of waterto Beliel where he can reach it.

I groan in despair. I want to snatch it away and makeher drink.

“My sister is coming for me.” Her voice breaks, likeshe’s not sure. Her face scrunches as she fights the tears.

He stares at the water.He stares at her.

“Aren’t you thirsty, Little Worm? Why not drink ityourself?” Suspicion fills his voice.

She sniffles. “You need it more.” She’s beingstubborn. Clinging on to who she is even under thesecircumstances.

“Don’t you know you’ll die if you don’t get somewater?”

She holds it out steadily.He reaches out his arm without moving his body and

takes it. He sniffs it as if suspicious that it might not be justwater.

He takes a sip.Then a gulp.Then he downs two-thirds of it.He pauses for a breath. He glares at Paige as if she

insulted him. “What are you looking at?”She just blinks at him.Beliel puts the glass to his mouth, but this time he

takes just a sip. He glances at Paige as if consideringgiving the rest to her.

Then he drains it in one big gulp.“That’s what happens when you’re nice. You might

as well learn that lesson early. Nice may have worked foryou in the past but no more. That strategy only works whenyou’re wanted. But now, you’re no different from me.Ugly. Rejected. Unloved. I understand.”

I cannot wait to kill him.

He hands her the glass. She takes it, desperate. Shetips it over in her mouth.

One small drop drips into her mouth.

HER FACE crumples but no tears come this time.She’s probably too dehydrated.

“Hand me the sandwiches.”She glares at him.“They won’t do you any good. You’ll just get thirstier

if you eat them.”She pauses, then grabs the sandwiches. She throws

them at him.He chuckles as they bounce off his chest and land in

pieces on his bloody bandage. He puts a sandwich backtogether and takes a bite. “Not too smart, are you?”

She puts her head down on her arms on the tiny tableand slumps there like she’s given up.

The video goes dark.I catch myself before asking whether she came out of

that all right. For a moment, I forgot what she’s like now.Of course she’s not all right.

Doc hovers his finger over the eject button. “Hadenough?”

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not yet.”He drops his hand. “It’s your punishment. Who am I

to argue?”The screen comes back on again.Time has passed. The light has dimmed and the

shadows are longer now. The door opens and an angelcomes in. It’s Burnt.

Paige raises her head. When she sees who it is, shescrambles off the chair and frantically crawls underBeliel’s cot.

“Ah, so that’s where it went,” says Burnt watchingPaige.

“And where did you go?” asks Beliel.“You didn’t seem to need us, so we brought you some

food and water and left you to sleep it off. How are youfeeling?” Burnt bends over to look at Paige.

“Just fantastic, thank you for asking.” The sarcasm inBeliel’s voice is unmistakable. “What are you doing?”

Paige screams as Burnt drags her out from under thecot.

“Let her go,” Beliel bellows.Burnt lets go in surprise.“You don’t do anything without my permission.”

Beliel grabs Burnt by the arm and yanks him to his face. Itmust hurt like hell in his condition, but Beliel doesn’tshow it. “You don’t touch that girl. You don’t even breathewithout my permission. Uriel gave you to me to command.You think he’d spend a second of his illustrious lifewondering what happened to you if you ended up as asplatter on the wall?”

Burnt looks back at him defiantly but with a touch ofnervousness. “Why would you do that?”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice that you weretrying to starve and drain me with thirst?”

“We left you food and water,” Burnt grunts throughhis teeth as he tries to jerk his arm out of Beliel’s grasp.The demon holds tight despite the pain. “We brought youback, too, when we could have left you on the streets todie.”

“Uriel would have plucked you alive if you hadn’t.You boys still don’t have the nerve to lie to him, do you?Afraid you’ll get some divine punishment. Well, hispunishment would feel playful compared to what I’ll do ifI ever wake up to dinner out of my reach again.Understood?”

Burnt nods resentfully.Beliel lets him go.Burnt takes a step back.“Get me some decent food and water. Fresh meat,

cooked to body temperature. I’m not a child who can live

off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”Burnt turns to go with a sneer.“Bring a few sandwiches for her, though.” He tips his

head toward Paige. “Nothing like a dead broken thing inthe corner of your room to stink up your day.”

Burnt glances at Paige who has scrambled back underthe bed, then at Beliel like he’s lost his mind.

“Problem?” asks Beliel.Burnt slowly shakes his head.“Too bad. Now, I’ll have to wait to finger-paint the

walls with your blood.”Burnt turns to go.“Bring a pitcher of water and some milk for the girl

too. Pronto, feather boy. I don’t have all week to loungearound. The sooner I can fly to talk to your preciousarchangel, the sooner you might be set free from yourduties.”

Burnt leaves.“Come out, Little Worm. The big bad angel is gone.”Paige peeks out from under the bed.“That’s a good pet.” He closes his eyes. “Sing me a

little song while I drift into a nap.” He grimaces with thepain he refused to show the angel. “Go on. Any song.”

Paige hesitantly starts humming “Twinkle, Twinkle,Little Star.”

The screen goes blank.

“THAT’S  IT,” says Doc as he turns off the TV.I have to swallow tears before I can ask, “What

happened next?”“Beliel kept her in the room as his pet until he

recovered enough to go to the aerie. He had to report toArchangel Uriel. Something about a legendary angel whohas been away for a long time.”

Raffe. Beliel must have reported that Raffe got away.“Whatever it was,” says Doc, “Uriel was displeased.

Beliel was in a seriously bad mood after that, and he tookit out on your sister. After treating her like a pet for days—feeding her, confiding in her, taking her with himeverywhere—he abandoned her to the medical team. Hetossed her our way and didn’t look back.”

He pops out the video. “She kept asking for him until

we—they—turned her into what she is now.”“She asked for him?”He shrugs. “He was the only one familiar to her in

her new environment.”I nod, wanting to throw up.“And what exactly did you turn her into?”“Don’t you think you’ve had enough punishment for

the day?”“Don’t pretend you give a damn. Tell me.”He sighs. “The kids were Uriel’s pet project.

Sometimes, I think he just likes playing God—somethingpeople used to accuse me of doing a lifetime ago. Hewanted the kids to look like something he couldn’t evendescribe. Said he’d never seen the things that he wantedthe kids to mimic but that no one who mattered had.”

I’m scared to ask but I do anyway. “What did he wantthem to be?”

“Abominations. They were to look like unnaturalchildren who ate people. They were to roam the earth andterrorize the population as part of the angels’ endlesspolitical machinations.”

So he could pass them off as nephilim and blameRaffe for not doing his job. So he could ruin hiscompetitor’s reputation and win the election forMessenger.

“You purposely made kids into abominations?”He sighs, like he never expected me to understand.

“The human race is about to come to an end and I, for one,am scared out of my skull. Unless we can figure out a wayto stop it, this is it for us.”

He sweeps out his arm as if inviting me to lookaround at the scorpion factory. “I’m in a very specialplace to make a difference, to help figure out a way to stopit. I have access to their facilities and knowledge. I havetheir trust and a small degree of freedom to work undertheir noses.”

He leans back against the wall as if he’s tired. “Butthe only way I can help the human race is if I do what theytell me to do. Even if it’s horrific. Even if it’s goddamnsoul-shredding.”

Doc pushes off from the wall and paces the office.“I’d do anything not to be that guy who has to makechoices that haunt him night after night. But here I am. It’sme and no one else. Do you understand?”

What I understand is that he chopped up my babysister and turned her into an “abomination.” “And just howare you helping the human race?”

He looks at his shoes. “I’ve tried a few experimentsthat I kept secret from the angels. Stole some angelscience, or magic, or whatever you want to call it, andimplemented it here and there. They’d kill me if theyknew. But all I have so far are tantalizing possibilities. Noconfirmed successes yet.”

I’m not interested in making this butcher of children

feel good about his job. But accusing him won’t get meanswers.

“Why did you make my sister move like a machine?”“What do you mean?”“She sits with her back straight, moves stiffly with

every motion, turns her head as if her neck doesn’t workthe same any more, you know—like a machine.” Exceptwhen she’s attacking, of course.

He looks at me as if I’ve lost it. “The girl has beencut and stitched everywhere like a quilted doll. And youhave to ask why she moves stiffly?” The guy who did thatto her looks down at me like I’m the insensitive person.

“She’s in pain.” He says it like he’s saying Duh.“Just because she’s fully functional doesn’t mean she’s notsuffering from excruciating, soul-shattering pain. Imaginebeing cut up everywhere, having your muscles ripped outand replaced, stitched up, every fiber of your bodyaltered. Now imagine that no one gives you painkillers.That’s what it’s like for her. I guess I can safely assumethat you didn’t even give her aspirin?”

It’s like he’s punching me in the lungs.“If that never occurred to you, then it’s no surprise

she left, is it?”I can’t even think about what it must be like for her

without feeling like I’m breaking.I even offered Raffe aspirin when he was

unconscious before I ever got to know him. I offered the

enemy pain relief but never considered it for my ownsister. Why?

Because she looked like a monster, that’s why. And itnever occurred to me that monsters might feel pain.

“Do you have any guesses as to where she might be?”Hearing the tremble in my own voice sucks out myconfidence.

He glances at the dark TV. “She’s not here. I wouldhave heard about it by now. But if you’re right and shewas here even briefly, then she’s looking for something.Or someone.”

“Who? She’s already come to me and Mom. We’reall she has in the world.”

“Beliel,” says Doc with certainty. “He’s the only onewho would understand. The only one who would accepther and not judge her.”

“What are you talking about? He’s the last one she’drun to.”

He shrugs. “He’s a monster. She’s a monster. Whoelse is going to accept her without considering her a freak,much less understand what she’s going through?”

“We…” The words shrivel in my mouth.The thought of Paige turning to Beliel astounds me.But if it had been Paige and Beliel together at the

Resistance camp, wouldn’t people have tried to corralthem both as a monster team? As if they belonged togetherand not with the rest of us humans?

“She might even have a touch of Stockholmsyndrome.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “What’s that?”“It’s where a kidnapping victim forms an attachment

to the kidnapper.”I stare at him, dumbfounded.“It’s not common but it can happen.”I grab the back of the chair and sit down shakily like

an old woman. The thought of little Paige feeling like shehas no one to turn to but a nightmare like Beliel breaks mein a way that the end of the world couldn’t.

“Beliel,” I say breathlessly. I shut my eyes and willmyself not to let the tears out. “Do you know where heis?” My own words stab me.

“He should be at the new aerie by now. Somethingbig is going on there, and Beliel has a job to do for thearchangel.”

“What job?”“Don’t know. I’m just the lab monkey. Need-to-

know-only basis.” He watches me. “Talk to the ferrycaptain about rescuing the Alcatraz prisoners, then go tothe aerie.”

“What if—”“Whether you can talk the captain into the rescue or

not, go to the aerie. The number of people dying here is noworse than what’s happening out there. Your sister ismore important than releasing prisoners into a bigger

slaughter house, which is what the world will be if wecan’t figure out a way to stop it.”

That jars my brain into thinking. “Why is Paige soimportant?” I can’t help the distrust that laces my voice.

“She’s a very special girl. She may be helpful in ourfight against the angels. If you find her at the aerie, bringher back to me. I’ll work with her. I’ll help her if I can.”

“Help her how?”He rubs the back of his neck, looking half-ashamed,

half-excited. “To be honest, I’m not sure yet. I altered thekids in this latest batch in the hope that I might be able toincrease our chance of survival as a species. A desperatemove in desperate times. The angels would tear me topieces if they knew about it. But the altered kids got wipedout during the attack on the aerie before I even got achance to see if any of it worked.”

He paces around the small office. “Now, you’retelling me there’s one left. We need to find her. I don’treally know what she can do, or even if it works the way Ithink it does. But it’s a chance for humanity. A tiny one butthat’s better than what we’ve got now.”

I don’t trust him any more than I trust a rabid angel.But if he can help me find Paige, I’ll go along with hisplan for now. “Okay. Help me find Paige and I’ll bring herback to you.”

He looks at me as if he knows I don’t trust him. “Letme make this very clear. We cannot have someone like

Beliel in control of your sister. Do you understand? UnderBeliel’s control, she could end up being a majorinstrument of our destruction. You have to lure her awayfrom him. She could be our last hope.”

Great.Before this all goes down, I could really use another

Saturday morning where Paige and I eat cereal and watchcartoons in our condo during the peaceful lull before Momgets up. Our biggest concern on mornings like those waswhether we still had our favorite cereals left at the end ofthe week or if we’d have to settle for the non-sugar kind.

“If I don’t make it off this island, or if you can’t findme—” Doc pauses as if dwelling on all the terrible thingsthat could happen to him—“it’ll be up to you to figure outwhat she can do and if she can help people. If your sistercan’t help humanity, I’m just an evil doctor doing horrificdeeds for the enemy. Please don’t let me be that person.”

I’m not sure I’m the one he’s pleading with, but I nodanyway.

He nods back. “Okay. Come with me.”

WE WALK out of the heart of the monster factory,down the brick passageway, and into another room. Iassume this was once a gift shop by the look of thepostcards and key chains on a forgotten stand by the door.

Inside, several human minions mix with prisoners.The minions stand out with their clean faces, groomedhair, and fresh clothes. There’s also an air of confidenceabout them that the prisoners don’t have.

“Madeline,” says Doc.A woman with the strong lines and the aging-model

looks of a ballet instructor saunters over. Every motion isgraceful and fluid, as if she was used to being on stage oron the catwalk. The tight bun of her gray-streaked haironly emphasizes her emerald eyes.

“Can you find a place for her?” asks Doc in a low

voice.Madeline looks me over. She’s not just glancing at

me to get a quick impression of who I am. She assesses,taking in my hair, my height, every curve and plane of myface. It’s as if she’s memorizing me, cataloging aspects ofmy appearance. She glances back at the collection ofprisoners.

The prisoners are all female and they stand in pairs.There’s a pair of twins with matching strawberry hair andfreckled pink skin. The rest of the pairs are probably nottwins, but at first glance, they look like it. A set of curvywomen with chocolate skin, a set of skinny girls withhoney hair cascading down their shoulders, a set of tallwomen with Mediterranean eyes and skin.

Madeline looks around the room, then back at me.“Wrong body type, wrong age,” she says.The door opens and a man ushers in a pair of teen

girls. Dark hair, high cheekbones, petite like me.“How about these?” asks Doc.Madeline swings her laser focus onto the girls. Then

she looks at me.“These two are better matched,” says the tanned guy

who brought them in, gesturing to the girls beside him.“We’ll have to make do with this one.” Madeline

nods her head toward me.“You’re going to tell the archangel that this is the best

match we could find?” asks the guy.

My skin prickles at the word “archangel.”“Same coloring, same body type,” says Madeline.

“After a makeover and haircut, they’ll look like twins.”“If they don’t, it’s all of our necks on the line, not just

yours,” says the guy.Madeline looks at Doc who nods.“Switch them.”The guy’s face darkens. “Just because he’s got your

husband holed up in a jail cell doesn’t mean you can tradeour lives for his whenever the good doctor snaps hisfingers.”

“Daniel, please just do as you’re asked.” Madeline’svoice is commanding with a hint of threat.

Daniel takes a deep breath. Everyone stares at us,feeling the tension.

He assesses the two girls, then takes one by the armand ushers her out.

The cold part of me says don’t ask. As far as I cantell, it’s to my benefit. And it could help my sister.“You’re holding someone hostage?”

One of these days, I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.“We’re all hostages here,” says Doc. “I’m doing

what I can to keep someone alive.”That sinks in.I take him aside and whisper, “If the prison break

doesn’t go down the way it’s supposed to, will you seethat my mother is safe?”

“Your mother, the lady running around triggering thealarms?”

I nod.“I don’t think I can promise that.”Surprisingly, I feel better about his answer than if he

had promised to take care of her because it’s more honest.“Will you try?”He doesn’t look happy about it.“Paige will listen to her, too.” Not entirely true

considering some of the things my mother tells us to do,but no need to get into details with him.

He thinks about it, then nods. “I’ll try.”That’s as good as I can expect.“And there’s a woman named Clara—”He shakes his head. “I’m not a magician. I can’t make

the hell that is Alcatraz go away. One is all I can promiseto try to keep safe.”

He steps back from me and takes Madeline aside.They whisper in the corner, giving me a chance to absorbthe situation.

The dark-haired teenager steps closer to me. She’smy height. We have the same figure and the same shade ofdark hair and eyes.

Matching pairs of girls.Archangel.An image of Uriel the politician walking through the

aerie’s club with his matching terrified women comes to

mind.I instinctively reach to stroke my bear-sword, trying

to get some comfort from the soft fur, but there’s nothingthere but empty air.

THE FERRY RIDE to San Francisco is as quietand gloomy as the one that took me to Alcatraz. The bigdifference is that humans are guarding us instead ofscorpions.

Madeline and her crew go around asking the twodozen of us if we can sew or design costumes, or if weknow how to make jewelry. If we answer yes, they writestuff down on their clipboards. I don’t know how to doany of these things but they don’t seem to care.

I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since my lastride on this ferry. It’s dawn now. The sky is tinged withwhat I always thought of as rosy pink, but this morning itlooks more like the color of a fresh bruise.

I try to see if I can talk to the captain, but the guardsfirmly redirect me to the bathrooms. On my way back, I

find a pen and paper on a clipboard hanging on the wall inthe stairwell. So I spend the rest of the ride writing downwhat I want to say to the boat driver, just in case I have toslip him a note instead of being able to talk to him.

I carefully word my argument to try to be aspersuasive as I can. When I’m done, I fold the paper andslide it into my pocket, hoping I won’t need it. It’ll bemuch better if I can persuade the driver in person.

Once we dock, we walk out into the sunlight, unableto believe we’re free from Alcatraz. The scorpions thatwere injured on the night we were captured are nowhereto be seen. Blood streaks across the splintery dock andinto the early morning shadows.

Our human guards don’t veer from their intendedcourse even though there are no scorpions or angelsaround.

“Why don’t you run?” I can’t help but ask one of theguards.

“And do what?” he says loud enough for all theprisoners to hear. “Fight to scrounge for scraps in thegarbage bin? Not be able to sleep because I’m so afraidangels will hunt me down?”

He looks around at all the prisoners. We all lookunsure, tentative, and lost. “Angels might hurt others butnot me. Their creatures get out of my way when I walk by.I eat three full meals every single day. I stay warm andprotected. And you can too. You’ve been chosen. All you

have to do is follow instructions.”He must have been a spin doctor in the World

Before, the way he turns my simple question into apropaganda moment. I notice he doesn’t say he’s free.

The piles of weapons, bags, and other precious itemsthat were left on the pier look like they’ve been hurriedlypicked through and are scattered near the dock. The onlythings that remain are the weakest of weapons, upendedbags, and toys. I scan the stuff until I see the two things I’mlooking for.

Mom’s tracker lies beside a purse, looking like aclunky cell phone. And Raffe’s sword lies near it, justwhere I left it, half-hidden under a rummaged backpackwith clothes spilling out of it. The teddy bear that stillhides the sword stares at the sky as if looking for Raffe tofly down and rescue it.

Huge relief floods through me. I run to grab thetracker and sword, hugging the bear like a long lost friend.

“You’ll have to leave them here,” says Madeline.“You won’t be allowed to bring anything into the aerie.”

I should have known. I hate to leave them but at leastI might be able to hide them. The other guards leave mealone, probably realizing that Madeline has an agendawith me, and they don’t want to get into trouble with her.

I look at Mom’s tracker. On the screen, my arrowpoints to San Francisco’s piers. Paige’s arrow points nearHalf Moon Bay on the Pacific coast.

“Where is the new aerie?” I ask Madeline.“Half Moon Bay,” she says.Is Paige really looking for Beliel? I close my eyes,

feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the stomach.I shut off the tracker. I badly want to take it and the

sword with me but I don’t have a choice. As much as Iwant to hide the tracker, I want my mother to have it if Ican’t keep it.

The world is littered with abandoned phones. Theodds of people leaving the tracker alone are very good. Ishut it off and put it back where I found it, forcing myselfto turn away.

The sword, on the other hand, needs to be hidden. Igot lucky that the looters were probably in a huge rush,otherwise, they would have noticed that the bear’s dress istoo long. I can’t resist giving the bear a final caress beforehiding it with the sword under a pile of wood and shinglesthat were once part of a shop.

I’m about to let go of the sword when my visionwavers and fades.

The sword wants to show me something.

I’M  IN the glass-and-marble hotel suite of the oldaerie where Raffe and I spent a few hours together. Thismust be the time after visiting the speakeasy club andbefore his wing transplant.

The shower is running at the other end of the suite. Itwould be peaceful and posh here except for the panoramicview of San Francisco’s charred cityscape dominating theliving room.

Raffe walks out of the bedroom, looking fantastic inhis suit. With his dark hair, broad shoulders, and muscularbuild, he looks better than any movie star I’ve ever seen.He looks like a guy who belongs in a thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suite. Every move, every gesture conveyselegance and power.

Something catches his eye and he walks to thewindow. A formation of angels flies past the moon. Heleans toward the glass, almost pressing his face to it as helooks up at the angels. Every line of him tells me he longsto fly with them.

I suspect it’s more than just wanting his wings back.We once had exotic fish in a bowl that Paige and I haddecorated with seashells. My dad told us that we alwayshad to make sure there were at least two fish in the bowlbecause some species needed to belong to a group. If oneof them was left alone long enough, it would die ofloneliness.

I wonder if angels are like that.When the angels disappear into the night sky beyond

the moon, Raffe turns sideways and looks at his reflectionin the window. The wings peeking through the slits in hissuit jacket look like other wings I’ve seen on angels at the

club downstairs, but they’re not. The severed wings arestrapped under his clothes and arranged to look normal.

He closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing hissadness. I’m so used to seeing Raffe with his game face onthat it’s hard to see him like this.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then heopens his eyes. He’s about to turn away from the windowwhen he sees something on his white shirt.

He plucks it and holds it up. It’s a strand of hair. Heruns his fingers along it. It’s dark and long and looks likemine.

His lips twitch as if it’s funny to think about how myhair might have ended up on his shirt. My guess is that itmust have happened when I kissed him in the hallwaydownstairs by the club. He thinks it’s amusing.

If I had a body in this dream, my cheeks would beburning. It’s embarrassing just to think about it.

He walks over to the marble bar lined with bottles ofwine. He looks beneath it and comes up with a small hotelsewing package. Why anyone who can afford a room likethis would want a set of emergency thread and buttons, Idon’t know, but there it is. He rips open the package andpulls out the thread. It’s the same snowy white as hiswings.

He holds the thread and hair together and twirls themwith his thumb and forefinger so that the two strandsintertwine.

Holding the ends together, he steps over to the swordthat lies on the counter and wraps the strand around thesword’s grip.

“Stop complaining,” he says to the sword. “It’s forluck.”

Luck. Luck. Luck.The word echoes in my head.

I PUT my hand on the splintery dock to steadymyself. The world comes back into focus as I take deepbreaths.

Did Raffe really keep a strand of my hair?Hard to believe.I look carefully at the sword’s hilt. Amazingly, there

it is, on the grip at the base of the cross-guard. Snow-white thread mixed with midnight dark.

I run my finger over the hair-thread and close myeyes. I think about Raffe doing the same thing as I feel thealternating texture of thread and hair against my fingertip.

Was the sword wishing me luck?I know that it misses Raffe. If I don’t come back, I

guess it has no chance of ever seeing him again. Even if itbonds with someone else, that person will have noconnection with him and no knowledge of what it is. Somaybe it does have a reason to wish me luck, along with alittle reminder of Raffe.

I hate to leave the sword but I have no choice. I coverit, bear and all, with broken shingles and splinteredboards.

I get up and walk away, feeling naked. I hope thelooters don’t have the luxury of digging through piles ofdebris for hidden treasures.

BY THE TIME the captain gets off the boat, ourgroup is being shepherded into a small caravan of vans,SUVs, and a short school bus. Madeline escorts thecaptain to one of those hateful shipping containers. Icasually join them.

“There’s an escape planned for tonight,” I say in alow voice.

He looks at me, then at Madeline, then back at me.He’s younger than I expected—probably no more thanthirty—with a clean face and a completely bald head.“Good luck to you.” His voice isn’t unfriendly, but it isn’tinviting either.

Madeline unlocks the shipping container and swingsthe metal doors open. It has shelves stocked with cannedsoup and vegetables, along with rows of liquor and books.

Battery-powered lights stand in the corner and anoverstuffed chair sits beside a small side table. By WorldAfter standards, it’s downright cozy.

“They need you to take the ship back and pick up theprisoners,” I say. His expression is skeptical so I rush onbefore he can say no. “It’ll be totally safe. All thescorpions and angels will be gone. They have a missiontonight.”

He steps into the container and turns on the lights.“Nothing is totally safe. And that ferry keeps me alive andfed. I can’t risk it. I won’t rat you out but I won’t letanyone touch that ferry, either.”

I glance at Madeline for help. “Can you talk to him? Imean, you have someone imprisoned on the island too,right?”

She looks down, refusing to meet my eyes. “Thedoctor will keep him safe so long as I help him with hislittle projects.” She shrugs. “We need to get going.”

I glance from Madeline to the captain who is nowpouring himself a drink. “This is your chance to make adifference,” I say. “You can save all those lives. Make upfor whatever it is you felt you had to do to survive. Youknow what goes on there.”

He bangs the glass onto the table. “Where did youfind her, Madeline? Isn’t what we go through bad enoughwithout Little Miss Pain-in-the-Ass lecturing us?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” I say.

“The right thing is a luxury for rich and shelteredpeople. For the rest of us, the only right thing is staying outof trouble and surviving as best we can.” He sits in thechair and opens a book, pointedly not looking at me.

“They need you. You’re the only one who can helpthem. My mom and my friend—”

“Get out before you convince me to rat you out just toget rid of you.” He has the decency to look uncomfortableabout it.

Madeline closes the door. “I’m leaving it unlocked.”“That’s fine,” he says in a voice that makes it clear

he’s done with the conversation.I had completely underestimated how hard it would

be to talk someone into risking his life for others.Whatever issues the Resistance has, they would haverallied around a cause like this.

“Can anyone else drive the boat?” I ask Madeline.“Not without sinking it while trying to back it out

from the dock. You can’t make someone be a hero. I’veleft the door open for Jake in case he changes his mind.”

“That’s not good enough. I need to find someone totake the boat back tonight.”

Daniel, Madeline’s assistant, sticks his tanned faceout of the bus window. “Let’s go!”

Madeline takes my arm and pulls me toward the bus.“Come on. It’s not our problem anymore.”

I yank out of her grasp. “How can you say that?”

She pulls a small pistol from her pocket and points itat me. “I told the doctor I’d take you to the aerie and that’swhat I’m going to do. I’m sorry, but my husband’s lifedepends on it.”

“A lot of lives can be saved, including yourhusband’s, if we can just—”

She shakes her head. “There is no one else who candrive that ferry. And even if we found someone, hewouldn’t risk his life any more than Jake would. I’m notthrowing away my husband’s life for a pie-in-the-skyescape plan. Let’s go. Now.” She has a determined gleamin her eyes like she’s ready to shoot my arm and drag meinto the bus.

I reluctantly head toward the bus with Madeline.

WE WEAVE through the abandoned cars onto I-280and head south. The further we get from the piers, theworse I feel about the Alcatraz escape plan. Captain Jakelooked like he was pretty comfortable with his position asslave captain. Is there any chance he might throw away theone asset that’s been keeping him alive and risk his life torescue the same people he ferried to their doom?

There’s a small chance that he might. He is humanand humans sometimes do things like that.

But it’s more likely that he’ll drink steadily all dayuntil he’s in a guilt-induced stupor when the scorpionstake off on their mission.

This is too much. Mom and Paige are too much. Thesword and Clara and all those people on Alcatraz…

I shove everything into the vault in my head and

mentally lean hard to shut the door. I have a whole worldin there now. I can’t afford to open it without the seriousrisk of being crushed by all the stuff that’ll spill out. Someof my friends had therapists in the World Before. What Ihave in that vault could take a therapist’s entire career tountangle.

Sitting in the back of the bus, I gaze out the openwindow without really seeing anything. It’s all a blur ofdead cars, junk, broken and burnt buildings.

Until we drive cautiously by two black SUVs.The SUVs have drivers in them even though they’re

parked. They’re keeping watch, and they look ready tomove at a moment’s notice. Three men are fiddling withsomething on the ground by the side of the road. It’s sosmall I can’t see it clearly.

As we drive by, I get a good look at the drivers. Atfirst, I don’t recognize them because of their newly blondhair. But there’s no mistaking the freckled faces of Deeand Dum.

I remember the letter I wrote to the ferry captain incase I didn’t have enough time to talk to him. I yank it outof my pocket and stare hard at the twins, willing them tosee me. They’re watching us carefully as we go by, andtheir gazes snag on me.

I shift my body to block the guards from seeing whatI’m doing. I hold up the letter to make sure Dee and Dumsee it and then I slip it out the window.

It falls to the ground, but their eyes don’t follow it.Instead, they keep their cool and continue theirsurveillance of the rest of the bus. They don’t get out oftheir cars to pick it up, even though I’m sure they saw theletter drop.

I casually glance at the guards to see if anyonenoticed what I did. The only one watching me is my girllook-alike sitting beside me, and she doesn’t look likeshe’s about to tell anyone. Everyone else is watching theResistance group with an intensity that borders onparanoia, if anything could be called paranoid any more.

We all watch the guys by the side of the road untilthey shrink to a dot. My guess is they are setting upcameras of some kind for their surveillance system aroundthe Bay Area. It makes sense that they might want a fewcameras along the highways.

It takes a while for my heartbeat to return to itsnormal pace, and I actually have to suppress a smile. Inever thought I’d think good things about the Resistanceagain. But if anyone is going to risk their necks and pulloff a major rescue, it’ll be those guys. No guarantee it’llhappen but it sure beats counting on Look-Out-for-Number-One Captain Jake.

HALF MOON BAY is bordered by a crescent-shaped beach on the Pacific coast. The earthquakes andsea storms have trashed the coastline to the point of beingunrecognizable. Half Moon Bay now looks more likeCrater Moon Bay with all the recent dents and bumpsalong the coast.

The new aerie is a posh hotel that used to sit on thebluffs overlooking the ocean. Now it sits on a piece of theland that miraculously didn’t get washed away with therest of the cliffs surrounding it. A narrow land bridgeconnects what’s left of the bay with the hotel island,making the whole place look like a keyhole.

The land bridge isn’t the old road that used to go tothe hotel. It must have once been part of the golf course.Whatever it was, the drive is as bumpy and jittery as my

emotions as we approach the sprawling, estate-like hotel.Being this close to the sea, it’s amazing the hotel is intact.

We drive past the main entrance, which faces a bigcircular driveway with a colored-light fountain that isoddly still running. The driveway is at the end of a roadthat now leads off a cliff.

We drive onto the grounds from the side, where thepavement is still solid and most of the golf course sprawlsover the spectacular view of the ocean below. The grassis both green and mowed as if it was still in the WorldBefore.

The only thing marring the illusion is an emptyswimming pool hanging halfway off the cliff on the edge ofthe grounds. As we drive by, a freakishly large wavecrashes against the cliff, fanning into a spectacular sprayand taking a chunk of the pool with it as it recedes.

The main building looks like a country estate from aRegency romance novel. Once we park, we’re herded intothe rear entryway. We walk up the stairs and into a cream-and-gold banquet hall that’s been turned into what feelslike the backstage of a play.

Wheeled racks of costumes are everywhere. Flapperdresses, demi-masks with peacock and ostrich feathers,1920s hats and sparkly headbands, zoot suits, pinstripedsuits, and elegant tuxes. As if that isn’t enough, there aregossamer fairy wings of every color hanging from all theracks and fixtures around the room.

An army of people in hotel uniforms fuss over thecostumes and shell-shocked females. Women and girls sitin front of mirrors, putting on makeup or sitting mutelywhile someone else works on them. There are alsofemales being dressed and then paraded in front of thestaff in glamorous speakeasy dresses and old-fashionedheels.

Makeup artists rush from mirrored station to stationwith powder and brush in hand. One station has so muchhairspray and perfume in the air that it looks like a fog hasmoved into that spot.

Costumes are being rolled around so fast it’s amazingthey’re not crashing into each other. They give theimpression of feathers and sequins zipping across theroom with nervous energy. Everybody is visibly jittery.

There are far too many women here to serve asUriel’s twin trophies. Although there must be at least ahundred people, hardly anyone is talking. The tension ismore like that of a funeral home rather than a prep roomfor an elaborate party or play or whatever this is.

I stand by the entrance, staring. I have no idea whatI’m supposed to do. I like the chaos. It might give me achance to sneak away and look for Paige or Beliel. It getseven better when Madeline seems to forget about us andmarches off to give orders to a group of hairdressers.

I drift around the room among the ribbons andsparkles. The only whispered conversations I hear repeat

the same mantra: “Get yourself an angel protector, orelse.”

I find myself melting into the group of matchingfemales who are being prepped in one corner of theballroom. My look-alike is already there. The women aremade up in pairs to look like identical twins, whichseveral of them are.

So this is why Uriel’s trophy women looked soterrified when I saw them at the last aerie. They’d beendrafted from the jail cells of Alcatraz and had probablyknown about the horrors awaiting them if they didn’tplease Uriel. I thought the aerie club scene was surrealwhen I was there, but now I realize how insane the wholething must have been to the girls who came from thatnightmare factory.

Just when I think we’ve been orphaned enough for meto sneak off, Daniel, Madeline’s assistant, rushes in to talkto her. His voice carries over the eerie quiet.

“ ‘Brunettes. Small, but well-proportioned,’ he says.”Daniel gives her an I-told-you-so look.

Madeline scans the group of girls standing in pairs.Everyone freezes like a rabbit waiting for a hawk toswoop down. The girls all try to escape Madeline’s noticeby shrinking and looking anywhere but at her.

She looks at me and my matching pair, Andi. We’rethe smallest of the brunettes. Her lips thin out into astubborn line.

“You’re not really going to risk all of us, are you?”asks Daniel. He sounds as if he thinks she will. “We haveto give him the closest thing we’ve got to what he wants.You know that.” Fear vibrates off him through the intensityof his eyes and the tension of his shoulders.

Madeline closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.Whoever Doc is protecting must be very special to her.

“Okay,” she breathes out. “Get them ready.”Daniel looks over at us. Everyone follows his gaze

and watches us. I don’t like the mix of sympathy and reliefin their eyes.

We get special attention even though the workerslook frazzled and harried. After a whirlwind of showers,lotions, perfumes, haircuts, dresses, and major makeovers,we stand in front of Madeline.

Our masks are sparkly makeup rather than a plasticdisguise. Playful ribbons of blue and silver makeup teaseeach other from our temples and curve around our eyesand over our cheekbones.

We wear matching dresses with silky drapes ofburgundy that cling to every curve. Headbands withplumes of peacock feathers. Thigh-high nylons with elasticbands to keep them up. Shapely, sparkly, gorgeous butuncomfortable heels.

People are fighting for their lives on the streets, andI’m here minding my p’s and q’s in four-inch heels thatpinch my toes.

Madeline walks in a slow circle around us. I have toadmit, we look like twins. My hair has been cut to Andi’sshoulder length, and there’s so much gunk in it that itwould take hurricane-force winds to tweak a strand fromthe matching curled halos around our heads.

“Nice touch with the eyelashes,” says Madeline. Wewear shockingly long fake lashes tinged with silver at thetips. I doubt that Uriel would remember me from his briefglimpse in the old aerie basement, but it’s reassuring toknow that even my own mother probably wouldn’trecognize me now.

Madeline nods after she finishes her inspection.“Come with me, girls. You’ll get the next shift with thearchangel.”

URIEL’S SUITE is spectacular. The living area isenormous—the kind of thing you see in Hollywoodmovies. Two of the walls are lined with large windowsthat give a stunning 180-degree view of the ocean. A bankof fog is rolling in over the horizon, curling and tumblingabove the water. The view is breathtaking, and we can’thelp but slow down to gawk as soon as our heels hit theplush carpet.

“Over here, girls,” says Madeline. She walks to thegrand desk that sits on one side of the room beyond the tanleather sofas and chairs. She points to either side of thedesk by the wall. “While the archangel is in his suite, youstand in these two spots. Do not move unless he tells youto move. Not like a statue—you are a statue. You’reallowed to breathe but that’s it. Understood?”

We walk to our spots. There is a subtle piece of tapeon the floor that marks where we’re supposed to stand.

“You are living art. You are the archangel’s trophies,and you’ll remain on either side of him while he sits.”

We take our positions. Madeline stands tall, pushingout her chest, dropping one shoulder and emphasizing hercurves to show us how we should look. We mimic her.She comes over and adjusts us, putting a hand on my thigh,tilting my head, arranging my hair. I’ve seen storekeepersdo this with their mannequins.

“When the archangel leaves his suite, you follow.Flow around the desk and all obstacles in unison. Walktwo steps behind him at all times. If you find yourselvesfalling behind, do not run. Gently pick up your pace untilyou are caught up. Grace at all times, ladies. Your livesdepend on it.”

“What if we need to go to the bathroom?” asks Andi.“Hold it. Every few hours, you’ll get a quick break

for food and bathroom runs. Someone from our team willcome for you with food and makeup kits to freshen yourhair and makeup during those times. Sometimes, thearchangel will remember to give you a break before a longmeeting. He can be good with his pets as long as they dowhat they’re supposed to do.” Her voice makes it clearthis is a warning and not a reassurance.

She walks to the far side of the desk and eyes uscritically as we hold our unnatural positions. She nods and

tells us to go hit the bathroom. When we come back, weassume our poses without her help. She looks at us againand makes minor adjustments.

“Good luck, ladies.” She sounds grim.She turns and leaves the suite.

WE STAND there for almost an hour before thedoor opens. It’s enough time for me to worry about everypossible reason why Uriel wants us here. I’m in themiddle of another poorly thought-out, harebrained schemethat risks not only my life but all the other lives around me.How am I supposed to sneak out and find Paige while I’mbeing a decoration for Uriel?

We wilt over time as the minutes drag by. But assoon as we hear voices outside, I can see out of the cornerof my eye that Andi perks up as much as I do. My hearthammers so fast that I can actually see my chest fluttering.

The door swings open and Uriel walks in. Hisfriendly smile seems genuine, reaching his eyes. In theocean glow coming through the windows, his wings lookoff-white again. What had looked like a touch of darknesson the Alcatraz dock now looks like a blush of warmth inthis rosy light. I guess the late afternoon sun reflecting offthe water can make even a killer like him look mellow. Nowonder everyone wants to live in California.

“—should have the reports from the secondary labs

tomorrow.” A woman walks in behind him. Gold-spunhair cascading over her shoulders. Perfect features. Largeblue eyes. The voice of… well, an angel. Laylah.

Every one of my muscles tenses and I worry I’ll tipover in my high heels from all that tensing. Laylah. Thehead doctor who operated on Raffe. The one who shouldhave sewn back his feathered wings and instead seweddemon wings onto his back. I wonder if the satisfaction ofa major punch to her perfect jaw would be worth dying ahorrible death.

“What’s taking so long?” asks Uriel as he closes thedoor.

Laylah gives him a wide-eyed stare, looking bothwounded and angry at the same time. “It’s a miracle we’reas far along as we are. You know that, right? In only tenmonths, we’ve managed to get an entire apocalypticmachine running.”

Ten months?“Most projects would barely be getting started in that

time. A normal team would still be experimenting withtheir first batch and it would be years, maybe decadesaway from having a horde of mature locusts that are readyto pounce on the world. My team is almost dead fromexhaustion, Uriel. I can’t believe—”

“Relax,” says Uriel. His voice is soothing, hisexpression gentle.

The angel invasion happened less than two months

ago. Had they set up labs months before the actualinvasion?

He guides her to the leather sofa and sits her down.He lounges on the chair beside the sofa and puts his feeton the marble coffee table.

His black soles look dirty beside the bottle of wineand flowers arranged on the table. Otherwise, they make abeautiful picture. Two exquisite angels lounging onexpensive furniture.

Uriel takes a deep breath. “Breathe. Enjoy thewonders of God’s Earth.” He proudly sweeps his handtoward the windows overlooking the spectacular surf as ifhe had something to do with it. He takes another deepbreath as if to show her how it’s done.

Laylah follows his lead and breathes deeply a coupleof times. So far, neither of the angels has glanced over atus any more than they looked at the dining table. We’rejust furniture to them.

I keep my eyes staring at a point on the bookshelves,as befitting a statue. The last thing I want is to have themnotice that I’m watching them. According to my sensei,you’re better off watching your enemies through yourperipheral vision anyway.

“If I didn’t think you could lead this project, Iwouldn’t have asked you to head it.” Uriel picks up thebottle of wine and removes the foil at the top. “There is nogreater chimerologist than you, Laylah. We all know that.

Well, everyone but Gabriel knew that.” His voice holds ahint of sarcasm when he mentions the Messenger. “Heshould never have appointed that doddering idiot, Paean,as the realm’s Lead Physician. It should have been you.And it will be as soon as I’m elected Messenger. Maybewe’ll even change the title to Lead Creator.”

Laylah’s perfect lips part in surprised pleasure. Oh,she’d like that.

“If Paean had been in charge of this project,” saysUriel as he works the corkscrew deeper into the cork, “hewould have started with cellular cultures and we’d bewaiting years before anything happened.”

“Centuries,” says Laylah. “He thinks everythingshould start with cellular cultures just because that’s hisspecialty.”

“His methods are eons outdated. You, on the otherhand—I knew you’d slam through this. You’re a genius.Why bother with building a species from the ground upwhen we can mix and match what’s already out there? Notthat that’s not enormously complicated.” He pops the cork.“Your work is absolutely brilliant. And I know that thisproject is progressing at unbelievable, record-breakingspeeds.”

He nods. Pins her with a look.“But I need it to go faster.” His friendly features

harden into something unrelenting. He pours a glass of redwine. It looks like a stream of blood pooling into the

glass.“And I know you can do it, Laylah.” His voice is

soft, encouraging, but with an undertone of command. “Iwouldn’t have given you the job if I didn’t think you couldmake it happen. Triple your staff, cut corners, birth thelocusts prematurely if you have to.” He hands her the glassand pours one for himself.

“Triple my staff with whom? More humans? I mightas well try to train dogs to work with us for all they knowabout species creation.”

“This area of the globe is the best that humans have tooffer. That’s what you said. That’s why we’re here in thissoulless place instead of Mecca or Jerusalem or VaticanCity, where the locals would have gotten down on theirknees and treated us with proper, old-world respect.Instead, we opted for the equipment, the labs, the highlytrained biologists. Remember?” He takes a drink. “You’rethe one who wanted to come here. So make it work,Laylah.”

“I’m doing my best.” She takes a sip, staining her lipswith dark red. “The latest batch of locusts have the lion’steeth and women’s hair that you requested, but they can’twork their mouths properly. If you want them closer to thebiblical description, we need more time.”

He takes a cigar from a box on the coffee table andoffers it to her. “Cigar?”

“No, thank you.” She crosses her model-long legs,

which emphasizes her graceful curves and lines as shelounges on the sofa. She looks like an artistic rendering ofthe perfect feminine form, more like a goddess than anangel.

“Try one. You’ll like it.”I assume she’ll say no. Even I can tell that a fat, ash-

tipped cigar wouldn’t make a good accessory for her. Butshe hesitates.

“Truly, who knew that the nectar of the gods wasmeant to be smoked rather than sipped? It’s no wonder somany of our upper echelon have taken to it.”

She leans forward to take it. Her back becomes stiff.Her legs look uncomfortable in her new position. Herfingers look unsure and clumsy as she lights the brown tip.

“The locusts don’t need to be perfect,” says Uriel.“They just need to put on a good show. They don’t evenneed to survive long—just long enough to wreak havoc,torture humans in good old-fashioned, biblical style, anddarken the sky with their numbers.”

Laylah takes a puff. I expect her to cough like anamateur but she doesn’t. She does come close to wrinklingher nose, though. “I’ll try to speed things up.”

“Trying is not a commitment.” Uriel’s voice issmooth but firm.

She takes a deep breath. “I won’t let you down,Archangel.”

“Good. I never doubted it.” He blows smoke. It must

be a good cigar. He looks satisfied. He gets up and Laylahfollows. “I must make the rounds at the party. Things areprobably about to get a little wild down there. When willyou be joining the festivities?”

Laylah looks even more uncomfortable, if that’spossible. “I need to get back to work. My staff needs me.”

“Of course they need you. But they’ll have to managewithout you for an evening. Part of the job of being LeadPhysician is attending major ceremonies. And believe me,this one will go down in history. You won’t want to missit.” Uriel ushers her out the door. “The monkey namedMadeline will see to your appearance.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Laylah almost bolts out.

FOR THE next couple of hours, Uriel gets dressed forthe party. It’s apparently another period costume party,only this time, it seems like the point is to actually besemi-disguised.

“Make the masks and wing coverings availableeverywhere,” he tells his assistant angel as Madeline andtwo other people cover his gray-tinged wings with a gauzywhite material. Even though it would be Madeline and herteam who would put the costumes out for the angels, Urielonly addresses his angelic assistant. “I want all the angelsto feel anonymous. And the Daughters of Men—make surethey’re wearing wings.”

“Wings?” asks the assistant. His wings are sky blueand I can understand why the angels would need to covertheir wings if they really want to be disguised. “But, Your

Grace, if I may, with all the wine and costumes, theDaughters of Men may be mistaken for angels by some ofthe drunk soldiers.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” Uriel’s tone implies thatit wouldn’t be a shame at all.

“But if some of the soldiers were to make amistake…,” he breaks off delicately.

“Then they’d better pray that I become the Messengerand not Michael. Unlike Michael who is off on one of hisendless military campaigns across the world, I amattending the party. I will be right here to understand howsuch a terrible mistake could be made. And as forRaphael, even if they don’t accept that he has fallen,they’ll certainly remember how preachy he got aboutfraternizing with the Daughters of Men after his Watchersfell doing exactly that.”

Madeline and her assistants place a layer of blackfeathers over Uriel’s wings so that the white materialpeeks out between the feather gaps.

“What are you doing?” asks Uriel irritated.Madeline stares wide-eyed at Uriel’s assistant,

looking terrified that Uriel just addressed her. Then shebows and tries to shrink into herself. “I, um, thought youwanted to be in costume. Your Grace.” I’m beginning tosuspect that only the Messenger gets to be called “YourGrace,” and that his toadies call him that to flatter him.

“I’ll wear a mask and wing coverings but I need to be

recognized, even from afar. It’s the masses who need to beanonymous. Do I look like the masses to you?”

“Absolutely not, Your Grace.” Madeline soundsbreathless with terror. She and her men whisk off theblack feathers and gauzy material with shaking hands.“We’ll be right back with a more appropriate outfit.” Theyscramble out, trailing feathers.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” The assistant bows.“I suppose intelligence is too much to ask of them.”They launch into a discussion about wine and liquor.

By the sound of things, they must have cleared every bar inthe Bay Area to provide a constant flow to the angelstonight. It hits me once again how we are at war but theyare not. To them, we humans are just incidental.

Despite our attack on their last aerie, they’re moreconcerned about drinks and costumes than they are aboutdefense against the humans. Of course, the fact thatvirtually all the angels were just injured and will fullyrecover, if they haven’t already, probably just bolsterstheir outrageous confidence.

I discreetly rub my fingers against the fabric on myhip where my bear sword would have been. The fabricfeels flimsy and vulnerable.

Before long, Madeline sweeps back into Uriel’s suitewith an entire crew, complete with rolling racks ofcostumes circa the 1920s crammed full of sparklingfeathers. They get to work on Uriel.

He ends up in a white suit with wings of sparklinggold and a matching mask that’s more of a crown than aface cover. It extends above his forehead, giving him theillusion of additional height, and curls around his eyeswithout actually hiding his features.

When he looks at himself in the full-length mirror, heorders Andi and me to stand behind him. Our makeup hasbeen refreshed and we now wear shimmery gauze wings,more fairy than angel. We are the perfect accessories tohis costume.

I understand now why he wanted petite brunettes. Oursmall bodies make him look large. His wings look giant,his height seems endless. We are the dark silk backgroundto his gold and diamond regalia.

WE ARRIVE just as the party is getting started.Winged men and glamorous women mingle on the multi-tiered terrace and on the golf course below. Torches andfire pits blaze against the golden glow of the sky beforesunset, lighting up the grounds.

Colorful lanterns are strung up and blowing in thewind like tethered balloons. Tall bistro tables arescattered around the party with gold-and-silver corkscrewribbons and shiny confetti, accenting the whole scene witha festive atmosphere.

The surf pounds the cliffs at the edge of the golf

course while waves splash gently on the beach on theother side. The rhythm of the water blends elegantly withthe music of the string quartet.

I glance at the ocean and wonder how the escapeplans are going on Alcatraz. Is the Resistance on its waythere? Will Captain Jake get off his recliner and do theright thing? Then I sweep my gaze over the glittery,glamorous crowd and wonder how I’m supposed to findmy sister here.

Uriel shines, clearly in his element as he greets hispeople. At first, Andi and I walk exactly two paces behindhim, but after a while, the crowd gets tighter and we onlyhave room to stand a single pace behind him. It gets a littletougher when he walks down to the golf course. Nothinglike heels on grass to make a girl feel clumsy.

Bits of conversation spill over as we walk by. Thetwo words I hear repeatedly are “apocalypse” and“Messenger.” “Apocalypse” is said loudly with relishwhile “Messenger” is said quietly with an undertone ofwariness.

The women are dressed as whimsically andcolorfully as we are. Delicate wings, hair curled andscalloped, demi-masks sparkling and colorful on theirfaces. Some are draped in long silk while others are intasseled flapper dresses.

The angels have slicked hair and are dressed in old-fashioned tuxes or suits. They wear half masks and wing

disguises that change the colors and patterns of theirwings. Some, like us, have makeup or tattoo designsaround their eyes instead of masks. Others wear zoot suitswith looping chains and hats.

The women hang all over the angels, laughing andflirting. Their eyes, though, are far from relaxed. Many ofthem look grimly determined to get themselves an angel,while more than a few look outright scared. They’reobviously taking their instructions to get an angel protectorseriously.

At this party, Uriel’s matching pair of girls are notthe only ones who are screaming-on-the-inside terrified.

There are a lot of women, but there are way moreangels at this party than there were at the last one at theold aerie. And unlike before, this party is crammed full ofhard-muscled, hard-eyed warriors.

It turns out that most of the women are in wings thatare more fairy than angel. Even the feathered wings arelittle cherub wings rather than the true angelic kind. Noway could anyone mistake these women for angels.

If an angel gave way to temptation tonight, therewould be guilt in the morning. And the knowledge that hecouldn’t convince the others that it was just a mistake.

And Uriel would be his only chance for salvation.I guess I already knew that Uriel is a manipulative

bastard. I suspect he’d been building up to this over weeksof parties, slowly introducing the Daughters of Men to the

angels, the unlimited drinks, the costumes. And now, themasks and wing disguises that allow for anonymity so theangels can do whatever tempts them without feeling likesomeone is watching. It would have been outright weird ifUriel had suggested such a thing as soon as they arrived onearth.

The word “premeditated” comes to mind.The fact that I’m allowed to overhear enough to start

piecing this stuff together makes me worried.Very worried.

FROM WHAT I can gather from snippets ofconversation among the hotel staff, it’s not just a party, it’sa banquet. On the agenda are drinks, scantily cladDaughters of Men, and more drinks. Then dinner withmore drinks. Then dancing with Daughters of Men andmore drinks.

Basically, there’s a whole lot of drunkenness plannedfor the evening. I guess, if the angels don’t break their ownrules tonight, Uriel’s backup plan must be to make surethey don’t remember that they didn’t break the rules.

Uriel glides from one group to the next, claspinghands and making sure everyone is having a good time. Heoffers Andi and me to those without girls on their arms,but they all politely decline without even looking at us.

I get a better notion of Uriel’s monumental task. This

is not an easy crowd to manipulate. Already, a lot of thesoldiers are turning down extra drinks and refusing theattentions of the women.

Some of the crowd welcome him warmly and with abrief fanning of wings. It seems like the equivalent of asalute—not so much that it takes up too much space, butenough to show respect. They didn’t do that at the oldaerie. He must have made progress in his campaign. Theyhadn’t called him Your Grace then either.

I’m glad to see that other groups greet him only withsimple nods and polite smiles. They call him Uriel,Archangel, and occasionally Uri rather than Your Grace.

“Do you really think we’re nearing Judgment Day,Uri?” asks a warrior. He hadn’t saluted with his wingsand doesn’t address him with much respect, but there’sgenuine interest and—hope?—in his face.

“I absolutely do,” says Uriel. His voice has realconviction. “Archangel Gabriel brought us here for areason. Bringing two other archangels to Earth along witha legion of warriors is nothing short of apocalyptic.”

Ain’t that the truth.I wonder what Raffe would think of this party.Before Uriel can go on with the conversation, others

intervene, and Uriel goes back to nodding greetings andstretching his mouth with an over-bright smile.

My feet are already hurting and the party has justbegun. My toes feel like they’re in a vice that gets tighter

by the minute, and my heels feel like electric drills areboring into them.

I fantasize about stepping into the crowd and losingmyself in it. Could I drift out to the edges and disappear?

Just as I’m thinking that, a woman screams from thebeach, followed by an unnatural growl. The piercingsound gets swallowed quickly by the roar of the waves,the conversation, and the music.

Andi and I exchange a quick glance before goingback to our matching poses. We mold our faces intomannequin faces—plastic and aloof. But I’m sure that ifsomeone really looked, they could see the alert fear in oureyes.

Uriel works his way to a makeshift stage at the edgeof the party. As he meanders along, he looks over atsomeone for a second longer than usual. I hadn’t evenrealized how closely I’d been watching him until I notice achange in his attitude. His shoulders and expression freezeon autopilot as his mind switches over to something else.

The change is so subtle that I’m sure no one elsenoticed it, except maybe for Andi who has been watchinghim as closely as I have.

Uriel looks at an oversized angel on the edge of thecrowd. He has snowy wings peppered with gold feathersand a matching gold mask over his eyes. He looks angelicin every sense except for the sneer on his lips.

He holds his snowy wings out a little as if insecure

that he belongs here. One of his wings has the scissornotch that’s now forever etched in my memory.

Beliel.I also recognize two angels beside him from the

video Doc showed me. Their wings are shimmery bronzeand copper, but I’d bet my next meal that one of them hasburnt orange wings beneath that costume. It’s Burnt, theKidnapper of Little Girls.

I clench my fists automatically and have to force themto relax.

Beliel and Uriel exchange a look. Beliel nods ever soslightly at Uriel. The archangel glances away withoutresponding but he smiles brightly at the next person andseems more relaxed.

I do a sweep of the people around Beliel. Of course,Paige is nowhere to be seen in the sea of angels andneither is Raffe. I’m not even sure I believe what Doc saidabout Paige being drawn to Beliel, but apparently my heartdoes.

Uriel steps into another group of warriors. This oneis part of the “Your Grace” crowd. Smiles and wing-fanning all around. As Uriel makes his way through thevarious masked and disguised angels, one of them catchesmy eye.

He’s a warrior with the required broad shoulders andAdonis body. This one has white-feathered wing coversflecked with silver that sparkles in the twilight. A

matching mask swirls and curves with feathers, ornatelycovering everything but his eyes and mouth. Even hisforehead is partially hidden by his tousled dark hair.

There’s something about him that makes me forgetabout my heels pinching my toes, the too-close crowd, andeven the monstrous Politician. Something feels familiarabout him, although I can’t say exactly what. Maybe it’sthe proud way he holds his head, or the way he cutsthrough the crowd with utter confidence, as if it’s assumedthat everyone will get out of his way.

Although he doesn’t observe Beliel any more thananyone else, he moves when Beliel moves, stops whenBeliel stops.

All my attention is drawn to the warrior as I look forthe slightest proof of him being Raffe. If he had been in acrowd of human men, it’d be easy to pick him out as a godamong them. Just my luck that we’re in a crowd of walkingmountains of muscle and the kind of studliness that femalesall over the world would die for. Too bad there’s too biga risk of actually dying around them.

My intense study of him must tickle his spy sensebecause he looks over at me.

I know that, as a soldier, he probably sized up all theothers around him, the weapons they carry, the best escaperoute. But as an angel, I doubt that he bothered to takemuch stock of the humans.

When he looks at me, it’s the look of someone

noticing a person for the first time, proving yet again thatan angel’s arrogance knows no bounds. Which, now that Ithink about it, increases the likelihood that this is Raffe.

He does a full evaluation of me, taking in the cut andcurled hair accented with peacock feathers, the blue andsilver makeup ribbons chasing around my eyes andcheekbones, the silky dress that clings to every part of mybody.

But it’s not until his eyes meet mine that a jolt ofrecognition passes between us.

I have no doubt that it’s Raffe.But he fights his recognition of me.For a second, his defenses fall and I can see the

turmoil behind his eyes.He saw me die. This must be a mistake.This glittery girl doesn’t look anything like the street

waif he traveled with.Yet…His step falters and he pauses, staring at me.

THE RIVER of people mills around him as he standslike a rock in the channel. He stares at me, seeminglyoblivious to the traffic of sparkling fabric, plumage of allcolors, masked faces, and flutes of champagne flowingaround him.

Time may have stopped for him but it hasn’t stoppedfor the rest of the world. Beliel continues to move fartherinto the crowd while Uriel walks closer to Raffe. If Raffedoesn’t move soon, he’ll be stuck having to greet Uriel.

The angels around Raffe fan their wings as Urielapproaches. If Raffe doesn’t fan his wings, too, Uriel isbound to notice him. Maybe he’ll stop to talk to him. Willhe recognize Raffe’s voice? Walking into an angel partywith demon wings is a little like walking onto a shootingrange disguised as a target.

I try to warn Raffe with my eyes as we drift over tohim, but he seems to be in a trance as he stares at me.

Only when it’s practically too late does he blink outof it and finally glance at Uriel. He ducks his head andturns away, but he gets caught trying to go in the wrongdirection as the angels around him move forward to greetUriel.

I can’t think of any way to help Raffe that doesn’tinvolve getting my head chopped off or something equallyhorrendous.

But if I do something to distract Uriel, he’ll likelywait until we’re in private to chop me up and feed me tohis scorpion-tailed hounds.

At least, I hope so.I take two small steps out of sync with my matching

twin. I trip.I careen into Uriel, bumping him harder than I

intended.Uriel stumbles into one of his sycophants and

champagne sloshes onto his hand. He spins to look at mewith a scowl. There is the promise of eternal torture in hiseyes.

I almost expect scorpion monsters to jump out andgrab me on the spot, dragging me into the depths of somedungeon where death minions will scuttle out to chop meto bits in the lonely darkness. I don’t need to fake myterror when Uriel looks at me.

But just as I suspected, he’ll wait to deal with meuntil he’s done stroking feathers or whatever it is thatangel politicians do. I have until then to figure out how toget out of this mess.

By the time he composes the raw violence in his faceinto something more suitable for a politician and turnsback to his admirers, Raffe is nowhere in sight.

It takes a few minutes before my heart slows down tonormal. I keep my eyes forward and behave like a modelaccessory, ashamed to glance over at Andi and see thefear in her face. She’s not very useful to Uriel without me,is she?

I hope Raffe made it to a shadowy cornersomewhere. I hope Paige is okay and that I’ll soon findher. I hope Mom and Clara are doing all right and aresuccessfully escaping. And now, there’s Andi, who Iclearly need to take with me when I leave because it’ll bea death sentence for her if her twin walks off or getskilled. And then there are all those people on Alcatraz.…

Too many.Being responsible for Mom and Paige is nearly

crushing me already. I take comfort in reminding myselfthat I am just a kid, not a hero. Heroes have a tendency todie in horrible ways. Somehow, I’ll get through this, andthen I’ll lead the quietest life anyone could possibly havein the World After.

We follow Uriel as he works the crowd and makes

his way to the makeshift stage at the ocean side of thelawn. The stage has a long table with a white tablecloth onit. The cloth shivers in the ocean wind, held down byplates and cutlery. Angels are seated on either side of anempty center chair like disciples at the Last Supper.

Uriel walks in front of the table and stands in thecenter, looking down at the party below him. I wonder ifwe should find seats, but Andi and I both hesitate longenough that we just assume our trophy poses on either sideof him.

As if on cue, the roar of the party quiets down and alleyes are on us. On Uriel, of course, but I’m close to him soit feels like everyone’s staring at me, even though no oneis.

I find myself scanning the masses for a certainsarcastic angel.

I take a deep breath. Am I really wishing that Raffe isstill here? He almost got caught already. It’ll be suicidefor him if he doesn’t get out of here fast.

But I can’t help but wonder if he sees me.I should be staring at a spot above the crowd as my

pose dictates, but my eyes keep drifting back to scan thefaces below us.

“Welcome brothers and sisters,” Uriel says aseveryone quiets down. “We are gathered tonight to unite ina single cause and to celebrate. I have news both appallingand amazing. First, the appalling.” The audience listens

with hushed curiosity.“Until the humans attacked our aerie, we assumed

that they’d been behaving as well as could be expected.But now it has come to my attention that they’ve been up tosinister things that we cannot abide.”

Uriel motions for someone to come forward. Anangel drags a cowering man onto the stage. He wearsfaded jeans, a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and glasses. He’sshaking and sweating, clearly terrified. The angel handsover a rolled cloth to Uriel.

He unrolls it, letting its contents fall onto the stage.“Tell us, Man,” says Uriel. “Tell everyone what you

had hidden in this cloth.”The man starts hyperventilating in loud, raspy

breaths, looking wildly at the crowd. When he doesn’t sayanything, his guard grabs his hair and yanks his head back.

“Feathers,” the prisoner gasps out. “A… a handful offeathers.”

“And?” asks Uriel.“Ha… hair. A lock of golden hair.”“And what else, Man?” asks Uriel in a freezing

voice.The prisoner’s eyes dart around, looking trapped and

desperate. His guard yanks back his head again so that hisneck looks like it’s about to snap.

“Fingers.” The man sobs. Tears streak down his face,and I wonder what he did for a living before the civilized

world came to an end. A doctor? A teacher? A groceryclerk?

“Two… severed… fingers,” he says between gasps.His guard lets him go. He huddles on the stage, shaking.

“What was the source of these feathers, hair, andfingers?”

The guard raises his hand and the man cringes,shielding his face.

“I got them from someone else,” says the man. “Ididn’t hurt anybody. I swear. I never hurt anybody.”

“Where did they come from?” asks Uriel.“I don’t know,” cries the man.The guard grabs him by the arms, and I can almost

hear his bones crunching.The man cries out in pain. “Angel.” He falls to his

knees, crying. His eyes dart around the hostile crowd interror. “They’re angel parts.” He almost whispers, but theaudience is silent and I’m sure they can hear him.

“ANGEL PARTS,” says Uriel in his boomingvoice. “The monkeys are slicing up our injured brethrenbefore they can recover. They are trading our feathers,fingers, and other parts for currency. And you all knowhow long and painful it can be to grow back fingers, not tomention the parts we can’t grow back.”

Angels roar, restless with violence.Uriel lets the righteous anger build with the masses.

“For so long we have waited. For so long we have letmonkeys infest this beautiful land, letting them believe thatthey are the most favored species in God’s universe. Theystill don’t understand why they’ve had unprecedented freereign over Earth for so long. They’re so arrogant andstupid that they don’t even realize that no one else is dumbenough to make a legendary battlefield their home.”

The crowd chuckles and hollers.Uriel smiles at them. “But I have amazing news,

brothers and sisters. News that will put humans like this intheir rightful place. News that will allow us to punishthem with God’s blessing.”

The crowd quiets.“You’ve heard the rumors,” says Uriel. “You’ve

heard the speculations. I’m here to tell you that they aretrue. The signs are here. We have definitive proof of thereason why Gabriel the Messenger brought us here toEarth.”

The audience murmurs excitedly.“We don’t have to wonder anymore, brothers and

sisters. We don’t have to argue and debate about whetherthis is a drill or a skirmish with the Fallen or just anotherwarning to the humans while they peck at us with theirpebbles and rocks.” He pauses for dramatic effect.

The crowd quiets.Uriel sweeps the crowd with his eyes. “Biblical

locusts are here.”A low murmur quickly bursts into an excited roar.He lets the noise build before putting up his hands to

quiet them. “As many of you know, part of my job is tovisit the Abyss. Yesterday, I opened the Bottomless Pit.From it, black smoke rose and darkened the sun and theair. Out of the smoke came locusts upon the earth. Just as itwas foretold, their faces were the faces of men and they

had tails like powerful scorpions. Thousands uponthousands. Pouring into the sky.”

As if on cue, all the angels in the crowd turn the samedirection to look up at the sky. I see the dark cloud on thehorizon before I hear what they hear.

The cloud explodes, spitting out more darkness,growing ever larger. A low buzzing quickly turns into athunderous roar.

I’ve heard this before.The sound of swarming scorpions.Everyone is silent and still while we all watch the

roiling cloud rush toward us.Uriel raises his arms like he’s ready to hug the

crowd. “We have our confirmation, brothers and sisters.What we have been waiting for. What we have been bredfor. What we have lived, breathed, and dreamt of isfinally here!”

Uriel’s voice feels like a booming command in myhead.

“We will be like—”Gods.“—Heroes of Old!”He takes a deep breath. “Finally.” Another breath, his

chest swelling with satisfaction. “It’s time for JudgmentDay. The legendary apocalypse is HERE!”

AS EVERYONE takes a moment to absorb whathe’s saying, the horde of scorpion locusts hurls toward us.

I want to shout that he’s lying. That the scorpions arehis creations, not biblical locusts. But I lose my chancebecause the crowd goes nuts.

Warriors raise their swords and stab the sky. Theyshout war cries that shatter the twilight.

Their wings flex, bursting out of the sheaths thatdisguise them.

Madeline’s carefully placed feathers fly everywhere.Glitter and fluff float into the air and drift like a scene inan old-time ticker-tape parade.

I shrink back, wishing I could disappear. Ironically,Andi does too, so that we continue to look like a matchingset.

Bloodlust pulses in the air like sprays of pheromone.The air is thick with it and getting thicker.

Then the terrible thing happens.Beside us on the stage, a warrior grabs the angel-

parts dealer and lifts him above his head. The guy squirmslike a kid as his glasses fall off. The angel heaves him intothe crowd.

A hundred arms grab the poor man and pull himdown into the engulfing center of the angelic masses. Theman screams and screams.

The multitude shoves each other to try to reach theman. Bloody bits of cloth and bigger, wet chunks I don’twant to think about fly out of the place where he landed.

The warrior angels rage and yell as they restlesslyjostle each other, cheering on the ones tearing at the manwho is drowning in their violence.

The crowd is peppered with humans.From here, the humans look small and terrified as

they realize what’s going on. Most of them are women,and they look especially vulnerable in their scanty dressesand heels.

The scorpions thunder above, darkening the sky asthey fly by. The wind gains force from countless wings,mixing with the shouts of the crowd. The frantic energywhips up the bloodlust in the drunken warriors.

People panic and run.And like cats whose instincts get triggered by a

fleeing mouse, the warriors pounce.It’s a massacre.The ones trapped in the center of the crowd have no

place to run, although they try. It’s too crowded for theangels to use their swords. They grab the humans withtheir bare hands.

Screams fill the night as the center of the crowdtightens in on itself while the edges disperse as people fanout. The angels seem to enjoy the chase as they let humansrun away from the crowd before tackling them.

One warrior punches his fist into a waiter’s stomachand pulls out a stringy, bloody mass that can only be hisintestines. He drapes them over a screaming woman likefine jewelry. The angels around him roar their approvaland punch their fists into the sky in a crazed frenzy.

From the stage, I can see the color of blood spreadingacross the crowd in a spill that just won’t stop.

Andi is screeching in panic. She turns and runs,hopping down from the stage and into the night.

My instincts yell at me to do the same but the stage isthe least crowded, the safest of all the areas I can see. Butbeing on stage during a riot is like being under a ten-thousand-watt spotlight when every cell of my body needsto be hiding in the dark.

Even Uriel seems to be at a loss as to what to do. Thejerky motions of his head and the tense expression on hisface when he turns to talk to his aides tell me this isn’t part

of the plan.He meant to get everyone drunk, excited, and riled up

enough to break taboos tonight. But he clearly didn’texpect this. Maybe if he was a warrior instead of apolitician, he would have predicted their response. Hewould have known that their veneer of civilized behaviorwas just waiting for an excuse to be shredded.

In pockets of the crowd, angels who’ve been shovingeach other in the race to catch a human start throwingpunches at each other.

It’s turning into a brawl as well as a massacre. Someof them take to the air to get more room and the chaosbecomes three-dimensional.

MY PERIPHERAL vision has been tracking amovement that’s just now coming to my attention.Someone is hurrying through the throng toward the stage.

I try not to let my imagination leap to where it wantsto go. But I can’t help it. I’m not usually a girl who hopesfor a damsel-in-distress rescue but no matter the oddsagainst it, this would be a freakin’ fantastic time for Raffeto come and sweep me into the sky.

But it’s not him.It’s Beliel. His giant shoulders cut through the chaos

as he shoves his way forward. My eyes search the crowdbehind Beliel for Raffe but I see no sign of him.

Disappointment kicks me so hard, I want to startcrying.

I need to find a way out of this.

Alone.Lots of distraction—that’s good. Murderous angels

everywhere—that’s bad.That’s about as far as my frozen brain will go.Beliel climbs onto the stage and shoves his way

through the angels surrounding Uriel.The screams, the yells, the smell of blood all assault

me. My brain and muscles want to seize up and it takeseverything I’ve got to keep myself from vaulting into thelethal crowd like Andi did. My choices are to stand hereuntil angels converge on me or run into the slaughter andhope against hope that I can sneak out of here.

I’ve never had a panic attack and I’m hoping I’m notabout to now. But I’m hyper-aware of what a flimsy,inconsequential creature I am compared to thesedemigods. Did I think for a second that I could have myown agenda among them? That I could beat any of them?I’m a little nobody, a nothing. By all the laws of nature, Ishould be crawling under a table and crying for mommy.

Only, relying on mommy is what other people do.I get cold comfort from that. I’ve always been on my

own and I’ve managed okay so far, haven’t I?In my head, I run through a list of vulnerable body

parts that makes size and strength irrelevant. Eyes, throat,groin, knees—even the biggest, toughest men havevulnerable spots that take very little force to damage. Thisthought soothes me enough that I can start looking for a

way out.As I survey the scene with a little less panic, I notice

someone new on the stage stairs.Raffe stands on the steps, as still as a statue,

watching me.In the twilight, his white-wing covering sparkles like

stars in the summer sky. I never would have guessed thatbeneath that covering lies a pair of scythe-edged demonwings.

Does he recognize me yet?Uriel’s group begins leaping off the stage and taking

to the air like a multi-winged organism. Beliel is the lastto leave. He opens his stolen wings to their full glory andstarts to beat the air.

Raffe leaps and tackles him.They slam onto the stage with a bang, but no one

notices one more pair of warriors fighting.We are now the only ones left on stage. Below us is

the shrieking slaughter. Above us is the seemingly never-ending mass of scorpions thundering through their flyby. Inbetween, it’s a drunken angel free-for-all with some evenhaving mid-air collisions.

A bloodied angel thunks onto the stage from above.So much blood streaks from him that it splashes onto

my dress. His shoulder is badly ripped like he got scrapedagainst the pointy tip of a lamppost. But he doesn’t seem tonotice as he jumps up, instantly ready for more.

I become acutely aware that I’m the only humanaround.

WHAT I wouldn’t give for Raffe’s sword right now.The bloody angel takes a step toward me.I snatch a high-class steak knife from the table and

kick off my heels.Or I try to.One of my heels refuses to come off without a helping

hand. Either my foot has swelled or the shoe was toosmall for me.

I don’t know a single fighting art that doesn’t requiregood footwork, and I’m pretty sure that having one barefoot and one in high heels is not a recommended technique.

My dress is also a problem. It’s full length andshapely. It looks great but doesn’t exactly give me enoughroom to kick. My legs are the strongest part of my bodyand I’m not about to hobble myself in a fight for the sake

of modesty. I slit my knife through a seam, ripping the skirtall the way to my thigh.

I angle the knife so it’ll slip between his ribs when Istab.

The throat is a better target but I’m too short to go forthat with this beast. At least not on the first thrust. Thesecond move, after he’s taken a hit, is another story.

He almost smiles at my knife as if that just adds morefun. He raises an eyebrow when he sees that I’m holding itlike I know how to use it. But his sword stays untouched inits scabbard as if this massacre and brawl don’t merit theuse of his sword.

His eyes are focused on my knife and face. Easy todo since my hands are up near my face in a fighter stance.

But my heel is still on my back foot, several incheshigher than my front foot. No way can I have decentfootwork limping around like this. So I do the only thing Ican do.

I kick him in the face point blank with my high heel.He wasn’t expecting that.The angel flies back off the stage.“It really is you,” says Raffe.He’s staring at me, stunned. His fist is mid-air but

paused in the middle of pummeling the hell out of Belielwho is bloody and staggering.

He starts a slow smile that melts my bones.Beliel interrupts the moment by butting him in the

head.Raffe staggers back.Beliel takes a good look at me. He smiles like he

now knows a secret. His teeth are covered in blooddripping from his gums.

He jumps off the stage, sweeping his wings.Raffe leaps and grabs Beliel’s leg. He yanks back,

keeping him from taking flight. Raffe is about to get hiswings back.

I yank off my remaining shoe, ready to dive in andhelp him.

Before I can move, though, the bloody angel I kickedoff stage drags himself back up from the mass of seethingbodies.

Boy, does he look pissed.My heel caught him in the nose, which now looks

exploded on his face. His once festive mask is now likesomething out of a horror flick.

I back away, quickly glancing at Raffe. He’s pullingwith all his might to keep Beliel from flying off. This isthe perfect opportunity to get his wings back. Who wouldquestion one more act of brutality among so many? Hemight not get a chance this good again.

Raffe glances over at me and our eyes meet.The wind blows my hair across my face and billows

my split dress around my legs.I’m not sure which is more mortifying—that my thigh-

high nylons are showing all the way to their tops or thatmy fairy wings are fluttering in the wind right before afight.

My opponent draws back his fist for a punch that mayflat-out kill me if it connects.

I get ready to deflect and stab. I tell myself I can takehim on but I can’t escape the fact that I will only bedelaying the inevitable. I know when I’m outgunned.

His fist comes flying at me.Before I can react, it’s deflected by a forearm just as

big as his. Raffe punches him so hard, he lands flat on hisback and stays there.

Beliel, poised on the edge of the stage, watches uswith his bloody grin as if he likes what he sees.

He leaps into the air.On Beliel’s back, Raffe’s beautiful snowy wings beat

back and forth. Once, twice. Waving a graceful goodbye.The giant demon disappears into the fist-throwing,

flight-hopping crowd.

RAFFE RIPS the tuxedo jacket off my dazed attackerand drapes it over me. It covers my entire upper bodyincluding my head. I can peek through the slit of the collaras I hide in the oversized jacket.

A warm arm enfolds me like a shield around myshoulder and turns me toward the side of the stage.

“Stay with me,” says a familiar masculine whisperfrom above my head. Even over the yelling of the mob andthe roaring of the waves, something unfurls in my chest atthe sound of that voice.

I look up to say something but he puts his finger to mylips and whispers, “Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil myfantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soonas you open your mouth.”

I’m so relieved I might laugh hysterically if I open my

mouth anyway.My vision shrinks down to a sliver between the

jacket collars as I trot along in the warmth of his cocoon.He holds me tightly against him, guiding and shielding mewith his body. I shuffle beside him, trying to becomeinvisible.

We descend four steps into the seething mass ofviolence.

As soon as we step down, we get jostled. I grip myknife even tighter, trying to be ready for whatever mightcome next. Raffe freely shoves and jostles right back in avery dominant way. He holds me behind him as he plowsthrough the crowd in front of us.

We’re near the edge of the masses but we still haveto work our way through to reach open space. We stepover bodies and I try not to look down.

Most of the crowd is too busy with their own fights tobother with us. It’s now mostly angel-on-angel but thereare still a few humans on the ground with their arms raisedprotectively against pummeling fists and kicks. Somewarriors shake their heads in disgust at the sight but it’snot much of a consolation. A part of me wants to slash atthe attacking angels while another part of me wants to runand hide.

Raffe drags me along too fast for me to dwell on it. Ican’t see much in the crush of bodies and I knock into himas he suddenly stops.

We’re on the outskirts of the crowd with most of thefighting behind us. Ahead of us is the bluff that dropsdown to the dark beach. The only thing between us andfreedom is a brawl.

Two angels go at it while two others circle eachother. Neither of them have their swords drawn. Thesefights aren’t meant for real damage, at least not to eachother. They’re like drunk Viking warriors with ahellacious vicious streak that Uriel thought he couldcontrol.

One of the angels gets thrown our way. His armgrazes me as he whizzes by. I half-spin and stagger, myhead accidentally popping out of the oversized jacket.

“What’s that you got there?” the one still standingasks. “There’s still one left?” He swaggers over and grabsfor me.

Without warning, Raffe throws a punch into his face,followed by two hits so fast that his fists are almost a blur.

I duck out of the way and step out from his shadow.When the other angel lurches back, Raffe doesn’t follow.He hovers near me.

I’m fully out in the open now. I drop the jacket, stepinto a defensive stance, and lift my knife in front of me.

Like the previous one, this angel smiles when he seesmy blade. He’s up for more of a challenge than squashingan ant. At least this ant has a sharp knife and an attitude.

My back feels exposed but I’ll just have to assume

the angels will be more sportsmanlike than to attack frombehind while I’m fighting, since this is nothing but sport tothem anyway.

Beside me, Raffe is already exchanging blows withan angel. He slams his attacker with the force of a head-oncollision.

My own opponent makes the first move. His grin isso wide, you’d think I was cooking up a treat for him.

Males—they’ve all trained against each other. Theyexpect attacks to certain zones on their bodies and fromsomeone who’s used to relying on upper-body strength.And they always, always underestimate women.

Me, I don’t have much upper-body strength, nothingcompared to most men, much less these guys. Like manywomen fighters, my power comes from my hips and legs.

He dives for me, hands out to grab my knife,expecting me to go straight at him.

I duck, crouching with bent knees, letting him almostsail over me.

I leap up at the last second and stab my blade into hiscrotch with all the force of my springing legs.

Why bother attacking their strengths when you can gostraight for their weaknesses?

He rolls around on the sand just like any other guywho gets kicked in the nuts. He’ll heal. But he won’t bebreaking taboos anytime soon.

An angel gets tossed past me head first. I spin to see

Raffe pummeling the last one. More are coming our wayfrom the crowd, attracted to a good fight.

Raffe looks over at the bloody knife in my hand. “If Istill had any doubts that it was you, that would do it.” Hegestures toward my opponent rolling on the ground withhis hands cradling his package.

“He should have been polite and just let us by,” I say.“Way to teach him some respect. I always wanted to

meet a girl who fights dirty,” says Raffe.“There’s no such thing as dirty fighting in self-

defense.”He huffs. “I don’t know whether to make fun of him

or to respect you.”“Come on, that one’s easy.”He grins at me. There’s something in his eyes that

makes my insides melt a little, like something deep insideus is communicating without me being fully aware of it.

I’m the first to look away.I slip the blade into the elastic band of my thigh-high

stockings. If they’re tight enough to keep the nylons upwhen I fight, then they should do a decent job of holdingmy knife. I’m glad these things are good for something.

I look up and see Raffe watching me. I feel a wave ofawkwardness.

Raffe grabs me around the waist and lifts me into hisarms like in an old-time movie. His arms cradle my backand knees.

I reflexively wrap my arms around his neck. For amoment, I’m confused, and the silliest thoughts floodthrough my head.

“Don’t let me go,” he says.He runs with me toward the bluff. Two steps into it,

his wings burst out from their wing coverings. Madeline’ssparkly white feathers explode behind us as giant batwings spread out.

Freedom in the shape of demon’s wings. I want tolaugh and cry at the same time.

I’m in Raffe’s arms, flying.

WE’RE IN THE AIR.I cling tighter, and he shifts me so that I’m holding on

like a kid with my legs wrapped around his middle. He’swarm even as the ocean wind blasts against my back. Wepick up altitude to a frightening height, but his arms aroundme are secure and I can’t help but feel reassured.

That feeling doesn’t last long. Between Raffe’swings, I get glimpses of what’s behind us.

Tipsy or not, the angels have no trouble lifting offinto the air. The sight of demon wings must have incitedthem because there are more of them chasing us than wesaw on the beach. They fly up through wisps of fog lit bypinpoints of firelight as we glide over the black waves.

Angels are supposed to be beautiful creatures of lightbut the ones chasing us look more like a cloud of demons

spewing forth from the mist. Raffe must be thinkingsomething similar because he tightens his grip around mywaist as if to say, “not this one.”

He banks into a turn, flying farther away from theshore to where the mist turns into a blanket. He glideslower toward the water where the fog is thicker and thewaves are louder.

We’re so low, the sea sprays over me as it surges.Water swells, turning into whitewater and rolling belowus. It feels like mile after mile of black and raging surf.

Raffe zigs one way, then the other. He makes sharp,unexpected turns after going straight for a while. Escapemaneuvers.

The fog is so thick that there’s a chance the angels arechasing shadows. The roar of the waves and wind meansthe angels can’t hear Raffe’s wings as they pumppowerfully through the air.

I’m shivering against his body. The icy spray andocean wind are freezing me to the point of not being ableto feel my arms around his neck or my legs around historso.

We glide along in silence, slicing through the night. Ihave no idea how close the angels are or whether they’reeven on our tail any more. I hear and see nothing in the fogglow. We take another sharp turn toward the ocean.

A face pops up in the fog.Behind it, giant wings with feathers the color of mist.

He’s too close.He slams into us.We spin out of control, bat wings tangling with

feathered ones.Raffe whips his wing with its extended scythes and

gouges into the feathered wings. The blades rip through thelayers of feathers until they catch on the angel’s wingbone.

We all tumble together in a mass as we fall throughthe air.

Raffe stabilizes us with great sweeps but he can’tfight with his wings and fly too. He untangles their wingsas the angel reaches for his sword.

Raffe doesn’t have a sword.And he has me—a hundred pounds of dead weight

that can only mess up his balance and fighting technique.His arms are holding me instead of being free to fight. Hiswings need to work that much harder to keep us in the air.

My only thought is that I am not going to end up trulydead this time in Raffe’s arms. I am not going to be onemore wound on his soul.

The angel pulls out his sword.Having trained with the staff, I know there are

weapons that need distance to be used effectively. Thesword is one of them.

Right now, the angel has enough space to reach backand skewer us or raise his sword and slice us. But if he

was hugging us, a feeble cut would be the most he coulddo.

It’s just water. It’ll be cold as hell, but it won’t killme if I fall.

Not right away, anyway.It’s amazing how many times we have to go against

our survival instincts to survive. I grip my legs eventighter around Raffe’s middle and push my upper bodyaway from him.

His arms give way in surprise before they tightenback around me. That’s enough time for me to lean out andgrab the angel’s sword arm in one hand and his high-collared tuxedo shirt in the other.

I lock my elbow and hold his sword arm to keep himfrom swinging toward us. I sure hope he’s not strongenough to crush my shoulder socket. With my other hand, Iyank him forward.

It all happens within a second. If the angel had beenexpecting that move, there’s no way he would have let medo it. But what attacker expects his victim to pull himcloser?

Without his wings fully in his control to balance him,I manage to pull the exceptionally light angel toward us.

Up close, his sword is less of a threat for skewering,but Raffe is forced to fly awkwardly to avoid shreddinghis wing on the blade. We teeter in the air, not far abovethe black waves.

Raffe holds me tight with one arm while using theother to fend off the angel who is trying to punch him.

I lean over and grab the sword’s hilt. I don’t have achance of getting it away from him, but I might be able todistract him from his fight with Raffe. And if I’m reallylucky, I might even convince the sword that anunauthorized user is trying to lift it.

We grapple in the air, awkwardly dipping, thengaining a little altitude, bobbing and twisting up and downabove the water. I manage to grab the sword’s hilt withboth my hands and although I can’t move it from theangel’s grip, I can angle it.

As soon as I do, the sword suddenly becomes heavy,so heavy that the angel’s arm flags.

“No!” the angel cries. There’s real horror in hisvoice as the sword threatens to drop from our hands.

Raffe slams him with the fist of his free arm. Theangel lurches back.

His sword drops. And disappears into the water.“No!” he cries again, horrified disbelief in his eyes

as he looks at the dark water where his sword sank. Iguess they don’t have scuba-diving angels to retrieveswords and other valuables from the bottom of the ocean.

He roars a war cry at us, bloodlust in his contortedface. Then he charges.

Two more angels appear out of the thick mist.Not surprising, with all the noise the first angel is

making, but my heart jumps anyway when I see them.All three come at us. Raffe spins around and flies

toward the open sea.There’s no way he’s going to outfly them with me

weighing him down.“Let go,” I say into his ear.Raffe holds me tighter like there’s no room for

discussion.“We’ll both be safer with me in the water than

weighing you down during a fight.” Still, he holds on. “Ican swim, Raffe. It’s no big deal.”

Something large slams into us from behind.And Raffe’s arms jar loose. I shove away.That first moment of falling feels like slow-mo,

where every sensation is amplified. A sheer knee-jerksurvival reaction makes me flail and grab the first thing Ican.

One hand grabs air. The other hand grasps the tip of afeathered wing.

Having my entire weight on one wing, the angeltwists and goes out of control. I channel all my panic intothe grip.

We plunge into the ocean together.

EVERY CELL in my body freezes, then explodesinto ice shards. The ice needles pierce and collide allthrough me. At least, that’s what it feels like.

It’s the most intense when the water engulfs my head,as if the top of my head was the last bastion of warmth inmy body. I need to shriek from the shock of it but my lungsare so frozen and contracted that shrieking is beyond me.

Dark turbulence rolls me around as I cannonballdown. I lose all sense of body and direction.

I eventually stop tumbling but as soon as I stop, I’mnot sure which way is up. My body tries to thrash aroundas the stopwatch on the air in my lungs ticks away.

I never would have thought that I might not know upfrom down but without gravity and light, I can’t tell what’swhat. I’m terrified to pick a direction.

Bubbles brush by me and I have thoughts of horriblethings coming at me from the watery depths of hell. Allthose half-lucid nights with Mom chanting away in thedark, painting images of demons dragging me into hell,come flooding back in the enormous coffin that is the sea.Are those dark shapes moving in the water or—?

Knock it off.Air. Swim. Think.No time to get sucked into a swirl of pointless drivel

that isn’t going to help in any way.Bubbles.Something about the bubbles.Don’t bubbles float up?I put my hand to my mouth to feel the bubbles and let

a precious bit of air out of my burning lungs. They tickleas they float across my face and past my ear.

I follow them sideways, or what feels like sideways.Water currents can drift bubbles in any direction buteventually, they go up, right? I certainly hope so.

I let out more bits of air, trying not to let out morethan I need to, until the bubbles consistently touch my noseon their way up. I kick as hard as I can, following thebubbles as fast as my burning lungs can drive me.

I begin to despair that I’m going the wrong directionwhen I notice that the water is becoming more iridescent,lighter. I swim harder.

Finally, my head breaks through the surface and I take

a huge gulp. Salty water pours into my mouth as thechoppy sea slaps me in the face. My lungs constrict and Idesperately try to control my coughs so that I don’t breathein another mouthful of water.

The sea erupts beside me and something bursts up.Head, arms, wings. The angel I tangoed with has

found his way up too.He thrashes, desperately gulping air and splashing all

over the place. His feathers are drenched and he doesn’tlook like he can swim very well. His arms flounder andhis wings flap, slapping the water pointlessly.

He’s being kept afloat by his thrashing but that’s avery exhausting way to swim. If he was human, he wouldhave spent all his energy by now and drowned.

I turn away and kick the water. I’m so cold I canbarely lift my arms.

The angel’s wing sweeps forward and blocks me. Itcorrals me into him as he thrashes.

I fumble for my knife, hoping it’s still stuck in mynylon band. My hand is so frozen, I can barely feel it butit’s there. It’s just a regular knife, not an angel blade, butit’ll still cut him. He’ll still feel the pain and bleed. Well,maybe in this cold, he won’t feel much but I have to try.

He reaches for me and I slash at his hand.He pulls back, then reaches for me with his other

hand, grabbing my hair. I stab into his forearm. He lets gobut grabs me with his slashed hand as he splashes about.

He pulls me in toward him, his arms climbing overme and pulling me down in the classic drowning thrashthat water safety instructors warn you about.

I take a deep breath. He shoves my head into the icywater and it engulfs me again.

I don’t know if he’s trying to drown me in a final I’m-taking-you-with-me gesture or if he’s just thrashing oninstinct. Either way, I’ll end up dead if he has his way.

I slash with all the panic I have of my own, cuttinghim deep across his torso and arms. Over and over again.

Blood warms the water.His grip loosens and I manage to bob my head up to

gulp a lungful of air. He’s not pushing me under any morebut he’s still holding onto me.

“You’re not the only monster in this world,” I gasp.There are great white sharks in northern California. Oursurfers and sharks seem to have a truce for the most part,except for the rare shark attack. But no one would ever gointo our water while bleeding.

I slash hard across his chest. Ribbons of blood flowout around him.

My eyes meet his. He thinks I’m talking about mebeing the monster. Maybe he’s right.

I’m no great white but all this knife stabbing andslashing is reminding me of Mom and her victims. Foronce, I’m okay with the similarities. For once, I hold ontoher craziness for strength. Sometimes, I just have to let go

and let my inner Mom out.I slash repeatedly like a madwoman.He finally loosens his grip on me.I kick away as fast as I can. I wasn’t bluffing about

the sharks.The knife makes swimming harder but I keep it in my

hand until I’m out of reach of the bleeding angel. Then, Istash it again in my nylon band.

I’m so worked up that it takes a few strokes before Inotice the freezing cold again. My breath mists in front ofmy face and my teeth chatter but I force myself to keepmoving.

A HUGE crash rocks the water.A tangle of wings and limbs rockets across the

surface, ripping a channel through the sea.It’s Raffe and two angels entangled in a grappling

match. They twist and fight as they plow through thewaves.

They soon separate and end up spending theirenergies splashing and bobbing in a drowning way. Bothenemy angels have their swords out which makesswimming even harder. They hang onto them, fighting thewater with their drooping, useless wings.

Raffe fares no better. His leathery wings shed liquidbetter than the angels’ feathered ones but they’re big andclumsy and he obviously has no idea how to swim withthem. Maybe there’s no ocean in heaven.

I swim toward him.One of the angels drops his sword, crying out in pain

and frustration. He probably held it as long as possible butit’s hard to stay afloat while putting a sword into itsscabbard and even harder to swim with a sword in yourhand.

The other angel bobs on the surface, trying to stayafloat with one hand clamping his sword. The third timethe angel dips under water, the blade tip swings down asthough too heavy for him. The angel’s head comes back upand he gasps “No, no, no” with real anguish.

The blade’s tip falls into the water and disappears.The angel’s sword has made the decision for him.

Aside from their comrades in arms, it wouldn’tsurprise me if the sword is the only thing most warriorsbond to. It brings back memories of Raffe’s stunned shockand hurt when his sword rejected him.

I swim faster. Or I try. The cold has made me sonumb and shivery, it’s hard to feel like I’m in control ofmy body.

They’re all staying afloat but just barely. I wonderhow long they can keep it up.

Just outside Raffe’s wingspan, I call out. “Raffe, stopthrashing.” He turns to me. “Calm down and I’ll come getyou.”

I’ve heard that most drowning victims can’t calmdown. They have to impose their will against every

survival instinct to stop flailing and let themselves feellike they’re drowning. It takes an infinite amount of trust tocount on someone else to save you.

Raffe must have enormous willpower because heimmediately stops splashing. He moves his arms and legsgently but it’s not enough to keep him afloat.

He starts sinking.I swim with every bit of turbo I’ve got.His head is below water before I can reach him. I tug

up on him but his giant wings are a huge drag and I’mpulled down instead.

We both sink below water.Even as we submerge, he still doesn’t thrash. I’m

awed by how much iron will it would take to override hisinstinctive needs. And how much trust.

Underwater, I can’t tell him to close his wings all theway to reduce the drag. I frantically reach for his wing andshove at it.

He understands and closes his massive wings tightlyalong his body. They look as light and thin as air. I’m surethat if he knew how to use them in the water, he couldglide like a stingray.

Kicking and pulling as hard as I can, I drag us to thesurface. I’m not a super strong swimmer but like mostCalifornia kids, I’ve had enough time in the ocean to feelcomfortable in it. With Raffe’s hollow bones, or whateverit is that makes him light, he’s not a heavy burden.

Relief floods through me when his head pops up andhe can breathe. I swim with one arm angled across hisshoulder and chest, keeping our faces up.

“Scissor your legs, Raffe. Keep kicking them.” Hislegs are a powerful motor. Once we get going, we get intoa steady rhythm and we make good progress away fromthe splashing angels.

The one I cut up is still bobbing feebly in the bloodywater not too far from the others. I don’t know what wouldhappen in a fight between a gang of angels and a school ofgreat white sharks but I’m glad I won’t be close enough tosee it.

Since the angels are squarely in the sharks’ territory,my bet is with the sharks. Who says angels can’t be killed?

They quickly disappear in the mist and I rely onRaffe’s uncanny instinct for direction to get us to shore.

I hear Southern California water is warm but no oneever says that about Northern California water. It’s notexactly Alaska, but it’s cold enough to give mehypothermia, or at least what feels like hypothermia. I’venever seen a surfer go in the water here without a wetsuit.But Raffe’s body is warm even in the freezing water, and Isuspect that his heat is keeping me alive.

When we get tired, we rest with his wings open. Thebuoyant wings keep us steady and afloat without any efforton our part.

When we near shore, the waves become whitewater

and we tumble awkwardly. We time it so that we diveunder the water when a big wave hits and pop back upwhen it’s calmer.

We manage to wash up onto the sand. We crawl justfar enough to be above the pounding surf before collapsingin a heap of soaked hair and clothes.

I look over to make sure he’s all right.He’s panting for air and staring right at me with a

look so intense it makes me squirm.I grasp for something to say. We haven’t really talked

since he left for surgery from our hotel room at the oldaerie. A lot has happened since then. Until a couple ofhours ago, he thought I was dead.

I open my mouth to say something meaningful,memorable. “I…”

Nothing comes.I reach out, thinking that maybe we could touch

hands, wanting to connect. But seaweed is tangledbetween my fingers, and I reflexively shake it off. It landson his face with a slimy plop before sliding off.

He sprawls on the sand, quietly laughing.His laugh is weak and in need of air but it may still

be the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. It’s full of warmthand genuine mirth, as only a living, breathing—um—person can have.

He reaches out and grabs my arm. He drags me tohim along the sand. My dress bunches up, more sand than

fabric, but I don’t care.He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.He is the one pocket of warmth in a sea of ice. Being

in his arms feels like the home I never had. He’s stillpanting his laugh that rumbles through his chest. My chestmoves with his, making me smile.

But somewhere along the way, the mood changes. Hekeeps going, his chest convulsing in spasms that sound alot like a weak laugh but isn’t. He holds me so tight that ifan army of scorpions came and tried to drag me out of hisarms, they wouldn’t be able to.

I stroke his hair and repeat the words of comfort hewhispered to me the last time we were together. “Shhh,” Isay. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He’s as warm as the afternoon sun on a summer day.We hold each other in our little pocket of warmth,

hidden from the monsters of the night by the mist swirlingaround us and the bloody surf pounding at our feet.

WE MANAGE to stagger to a beach house among arow of houses shrouded in the mist. In the World Before,these houses were within walking distance of the waterbut not beachfront properties. In the World After, they sitin a sea of rubble, and they’re the closest houses to thewater. Many of them still look undisturbed with theirseahorse flags and wooden lounge chairs on the porch, asif waiting for their residents to come home.

I stumble into the living room behind Raffe, soexhausted as to be almost oblivious to my surroundings.Inside, we’re protected from the wind, and although thehouse is not heated, it feels as if it is by comparison towhere we’ve just been. I’m wet and sandy with my flimsydress clinging to me like wet tissue paper.

Unlike me, Raffe is on full alert. He checks every

corner of the house before relaxing his guard.There’s no electricity so the rooms are dark except

for the misty glow of the moon coming in through thepicture windows. We’re in luck, though. There’s afireplace with a box of wood beside it, along withmatches and decorative candles on the mantel.

I try lighting a candle. My hand shakes so badly Ibreak three matches before I can finally get one to light.Raffe starts a fire. As soon as the tiny flame lights up,something in me relaxes a little, as if a part of me wasseriously worried that my basic functions were on theirway to shutting down before the fire started.

Despite his shivering, he gets up and pulls thevertical blinds closed on the windows. I don’t know howhe manages to do it. It takes everything I’ve got just tokeep myself from crawling into the fireplace to get closerto the heat.

He even takes the time to grab blankets and towelsfrom somewhere in the dark recesses of the house, and hedrapes a blanket around me. My skin is so frozen that I canbarely feel the soft warmth of his hand brushing against myneck.

“How do you feel?” he asks.I answer through chattering teeth. “As well as can be

expected after a swim in angel-infested waters.”Raffe puts his hand on my forehead. “You humans are

so fragile. If time doesn’t kill you off, it’s germs or sharks

or hypothermia.”“Or blood-crazed angels.”He shakes his head. “One minute you’re fine, the next

minute you’re gone forever.” He stares broodily into theflickering fire.

My hair is still dripping icy water down my neck andback, and my dress sticks to me like it’s made of wet sand.As if thinking the same thing, he wraps a beach towelaround his waist and rolls it along his washboard stomachto keep it in place.

Then he takes his boots off. And peels off his pants.“What are you doing?” I sound nervous.He doesn’t pause as he strips beneath his towel.

“Trying to warm up. You should do the same if you don’twant your precious heat to get sucked out by your wetclothes.” His pants land with a plop on the rug.

I hesitate while he sits close to me in front of the fire.He opens his demon wings. I suppose he does it to

dry them off, but it has the added effect of being a heattrap. The muscles along my back and shoulders relax assoon as I feel the warmth swirling behind me.

I shiver, trying to shake off as much of the cold as Ican. He tightens the circle of his wings, keeping the heat ofthe fire growing between us.

“Good job out there,” he says. He looks at me withquiet approval.

I blink at him in surprise. It’s not like no one has ever

said that to me. But somehow this is different. Unexpected.“You too.” I want to say more. I crack open the vault

in my head to see if I can peek in and maybe see somethingworth saying, but it all pushes against the door, wanting toflood out. I slam the door shut, leaning against it to keep itfrom bursting open. Still, my tongue gets tangled in all thethings I want to say. “Yeah, you too.”

He nods as if he understands, as if I actually had saidall those things tumbling out of the vault and he acceptsthem.

We listen to the fire crackle for a while.I’ve warmed enough to want to be free of my gritty,

wet dress, which is sucking the fledgling heat from myskin. I wrap my blanket around myself and bite into theoverlapping edge to keep it in place as a shield.

He grins when he sees me squirming underneath,wrestling with the wet dress. “I’m sure a respectablemodern man would turn his back so he wouldn’t see ifthere was a slip-up.”

I nod, keeping a tight bite on my blanket.“But we’d lose our heat shelter.” He raises a wing a

few inches to demonstrate. Cool air immediately touchesmy legs. He lowers his wing back into place again. Heshrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to not slip up.”

I continue to squirm, getting myself free of the leftsleeve.

“Don’t laugh or anything,” he says, “because that

could be disastrous.”I squint at him, giving him a glare that tells him not to

try to make me laugh.“Have you heard that joke about—”I rip through the flimsy dress under my blanket. It was

ruined anyway. I tear it off and toss it out from beneath theblanket.

It lands on top of his pants on the rug.Raffe bursts out laughing. It’s a beautiful thing—rich

and carefree. It calls to me to laugh along with him.“You are so great at creative solutions,” he says still

chuckling. “They usually involve ripping, tearing, kicking,or stabbing, but they’re creative.”

I let go of the blanket with my teeth now that I canhold it securely around me with my hands. “I just got tiredof the wetness sticking to me, that’s all. I think I was prettysafe from the threat of your joke being funny.”

“I’m wounded by your comment,” he says with asmile.

The word “wounded” echoes in my head, and I see itdoes in his, too, because his smile fades.

“What happened back there at the old aerie? I sawyou get stung by the scorpion. I watched you die. How didyou survive?”

I explain about the scorpion sting paralyzing andslowing down the heart and breathing so that the victimseems dead.

“I thought for sure I’d lost you.”Lost me?I stare into the fire without seeing it. “I thought I’d

lost you too.” The words barely come out.The fire crackles and pops, eating away at the wood.

It reminds me of the fire at the aerie when Raffe carriedme to safety even though he thought I was dead.

“Thank you for returning me to my family. That was acrazy, dangerous thing to do.”

“I was feeling a little crazy and dangerous then.”“Yeah, I saw that.” I’ll never get rid of the image of

him smashing the giant scorpion tubes in rage and killingall the monsters after seeing me die.

His lips twitch as if laughing at himself. “That musthave been entertaining.”

“No, it really wasn’t. It was kind of…”heartbreaking. “Heartbreaking.” I blink when I realizewhat just slipped out of my mouth. “I mean…” Nothingcomes to mind that I can substitute for what I just said.

“Heart.” He looks deeply into the flames.“Breaking.” The sounds flow out between his lips likethey’re new to him, like he’s never said them before. Henods. “Yeah. I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

The fire crackles. It’s surprising how quickly a firecan warm you up.

“I wasn’t saying you were heartbroken.” I sound likeEnglish is a new language for me, the way I stutter out the

words. “I just meant it was hard for me to… to watch.”He neither confirms nor denies that he might or might

not have been even a teeny bit heartbroken.“Well, okay, maybe you did seem just a little

heartbroken.” So embarrassing. Now, I’m totally fishing.A part of me is chastising me for being such a dork. Therest of me is listening carefully for a reaction.

The orange and red flames grow larger and warmer.The crackling and popping is rhythmic and hypnotic. Theheat is exquisite.

“You’re shivering,” he says. He sounds reluctant.Maybe even sad. “Take a shower. Maybe we’ll be luckyand there will be hot water.”

He hesitates while I hold my breath.Then he turns away from me.He stands and heads into the darkness of the house.As soon as he moves the shelter of his wings, the

cold seeps back in. I watch him fade into the shadows. Hisdark wings and bowed head disappear first, then the broadshoulders and arms.

Then nothing.

I SIT THERE, watching him go, wanting to saysomething but not knowing what.

I reluctantly get up and move away from thefireplace. The house feels colder now as I head upstairs tofind a bathroom.

There are plush towels there, folded in a way thatsuggests they haven’t been used since they were washed.That was probably months ago.

I shower by candlelight. The water is lukewarm, butcompared to the ocean, it feels good on my still frozenskin. I don’t linger, though. Just long enough to rinse offthe sand, soap up, and shampoo as fast as I can. I’m stillshivering from the cold seeping into my bones and I can’twait to be dry and warm again.

There’s a thick robe hanging on the bathroom door

that I wish I could snuggle up in. But those kinds ofluxuries are for people in the World Before, not forpeople who might be chased out of here any minute bymonsters or marauders.

I quickly rummage through the closets and drawersfor clothes. The best I can find is a sweater dress that’sprobably meant to be just a sweater. Everything else isabout four sizes too big. I cinch the sweater around mywaist with a scarf and throw on a pair of stretchy pants.The legs fit comfortably down to my ankles even thoughthey’re probably meant to be capris.

I’m sure I could have found something better but Idon’t want to linger with my candle lighting the upstairswindow. The fog should keep the tiny light from travelingfar but why invite trouble?

Downstairs, the living room is warmly lit by theglow from the fireplace. Raffe stands on a chair, duct-taping blankets over the picture windows. He must havehad the same thought as I did about the candle glow beingvisible.

There’s something about him standing on a chair toreach the top of the windows that puts me at ease. It’s sucha normal thing to do.

Well, it’s normal if you ignore the dark wings gentlygliding back and forth behind him. I suppose he’s dryingthem. The hooks and scythes are out and gleaming in thecandlelight. No feathers to preen. I wonder if he polishes

his scythes?“You’re not Fallen, are you?” The question pops out

of my mouth before my head can censor it.“From everything I’ve heard, that would just make

me more sexy to you Daughters of Men.” He finishestaping the last bit of the blanket. “What is it that you allsee in bad boys?”

“I’m asking the questions here, Raffe. This isserious.”

“Is it a chance for you to provide redemption?” Hehops off the chair and finally turns to look at me.

When he sees me, his shoulders shake in a silentlaugh that quickly builds into a full chuckle. Raffe’s laughis something I would normally enjoy, except that he’sclearly laughing at me.

I look down at my outfit. I admit that I might haverushed a bit too much while getting dressed upstairs.

What looked like a muted patterned sweater by thelight of one candle turns out to be leopard-spotted by thelight of several candles. And because it’s so big on me, itfolds and hangs everywhere. What I took to be a dark scarfaround my waist turns out to be a red tie and my brownsocks are actually a mismatched pair of pink and purple.

“Why is it that everyone else can look like they’repart of a zombie hunting party, but I still have to worryabout fashion?”

He won’t stop snickering. “You look like a leopard-

spotted Shar-Pei.”I think those are the little pug-like dogs drowning in

massive folds of skin. “You’re scarring me, you know. Itcould haunt me for the rest of my life to be called awrinkly little dog at the tender age of seventeen.”

“Yup. A sensitive girl. That just defines you,Penryn.” The firelight softens his features and warms hisskin. “But if you must have an ego boost for your tenderside, I will admit that you looked great with wings.” Raffesays this last part in a wistful voice.

I suddenly feel awkward. “Thanks… I think.”“You don’t want to look great with wings?”“I’m just scared this may be a setup for me being the

butt of a so-called joke, like, um, how I may look like awrinkly dog with wings but I have a nice personality orsomething.” I look up at the ceiling as I think about it.“Okay, that didn’t come out funny at all, so it would havebeen a really bad joke.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’re safe,” he says in areassuring voice. “I’d never tell you that you have a nicepersonality.”

I give him a dirty look and he chuckles at his ownteasing comment.

And just like that, he’s back to the same Raffe I got toknow on the road.

WE HEAT water on the gas stove, which stillworks as long as you light it with a match. Then we sit bythe fireplace, drinking hot water from mugs while I tellhim what I’ve been up to since we last saw each other.The warmth feels so good I want to curl up and fallasleep.

“Where is my sword?”I take a deep breath. I haven’t mentioned the sword

dreams. It would feel a little too much like admitting Isnooped into his life. “I had to leave it in a pile of stuff onPier 39 in San Francisco when I got caught.”

“You left her?”I nod. “I had no choice.”“She wasn’t made to be alone.”“I guess none of us are.”Our eyes meet and an electric tingle runs through me.“She missed you,” I say in a whisper.“Did she?” His voice is a soft caress. His gaze into

my eyes is so intense that I swear he sees straight into mysoul.

“Yes.” Warmth flushes my cheeks. I… “She thoughtabout you all the time.”

The candlelight flickers a soft glow along hisjawline, along his lips. “I hated losing her.” His voice is alow growl. “I hadn’t realized just how attached I’dgotten.” He reaches and moves a strand of wet hair out ofmy face. “How dangerously addictive she could be.”

His gaze pins me to my spot and I can’t move, can’tbreathe.

“Maybe a girl needs to hear that. Maybe she wants tobe with you, too.” The words come out in a rushedwhisper.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Heshakes his head. “It can’t be.”

“Why?”“Rules. Custom. Danger. It’s dangerous to be with

me.”“It’s dangerous to be without you.” I nudge closer to

the fire.He reaches out and adjusts my blanket around my

shoulders. “That doesn’t change the rules, though.”I close my eyes and feel the warmth of his fingers

brushing my neck. “Who cares about the rules? It’s the endof the world, remember?”

“Rules are important to us. Angels are a warriorrace.”

“I noticed. But what does that have to do with it?”“The only way to keep a society of killers together

for eons is to have a strict chain of command and zerotolerance for breach of rules. Otherwise, we all wouldhave slaughtered each other a long time ago.”

“Even if the rules make no sense?”“Sometimes they make sense.” He grins. “But that’s

beside the point. The point is to have warriors follow

their orders, not to judge them.”“What if it keeps you from things and people you care

about?”“Especially then. That’s often the most effective

punishment. Death is not much of a threat to a true warrior.But take away your Daughter of Man, your children, yourfriends, your sword—these are true punishments.”

I can’t help myself. I lean close to him so that my faceis just a kiss away. “We’re really scary, aren’t we?”

He looks at my lips almost involuntarily. But hedoesn’t back off or lean forward one millimeter. Hearches his brow at me. “Daughters of Men are trulydangerous. Not to mention truly annoying.” He shrugs. “Ina yappy, occasionally cute kind of way.”

I lean back. “I’m beginning to understand why yoursword left you.” Ouch. That came out wrong. “Sorry, Ididn’t mean—”

“She left because she had standing orders to do soshould she ever sense the darkness.”

“Why?”He looks into his mug. “Because a Fallen with an

angel sword is too dangerous. Their wings change overtime and eventually grow their own weapons if theysurvive enough battles. To have both Fallen wings and anangel sword is too dangerous a combination to allow.”

“But you’re not Fallen, are you? Why would yoursword leave you?”

“The wings confused her.” He takes a drink, lookinglike he wishes it was stronger than water. “She’s partiallysentient but it’s not like she has a brain.” He half-grins.

I sigh and put my mug down. “Your world is sodifferent from mine. Do you guys have anything in commonwith humans?”

He looks at me with those killer eyes in that perfectface over his Adonis body. “Nothing we’ll admit to.”

“There’s no way around it, is there?” I ask. “We’remortal enemies and I should be trying to kill you andeveryone like you.”

He leans over, touches the tip of his forehead tomine, and closes his eyes. “Yes.” His gentle breathcaresses my lips as he says the word.

I close my eyes too, and try to focus on the warmth ofhis forehead resting on mine.

RAFFE COMES BACK from foraging with abox of cereal and a jar of peanut butter. I wanted to getmoving but he insisted that soldiers need food to fightproperly. Besides, he said he needed time to think abouthis next step. So he took off into the night with his veryhandy night vision while I sat in the house beside mycandles.

The cereal is raisin bran and the raisins taste likeheaven—I mean, nirvana—or whatever wonderful placedoesn’t remind me of deadly angels.

For once, our hands are clean, so we eat handfuls ofcereal and lick the peanut butter straight from our fingers. Isuppose this place probably has utensils in the kitchen butwhy bother? There’s something kind of fun about scoopingthe gooey goodness with our fingers and licking it like ice

cream.Raisin bran and peanut butter. Who knew it could

taste so good? If we could just add a bit of chocolate, itwould probably make a great, peanutty, crunchy chocolatebar for the high school bake sale. Okay, maybe it wouldn’ttaste quite so good compared to the foods in the WorldBefore, but right now, it tastes amazing.

“I need to go back to the aerie,” says Raffe as hescoops his fingers into the jar.

My handful of cereal stops midway to my mouth.“Seriously? The place full of crazed, bloodthirstyNeanderthals where we barely escaped with our lives?”

He arches a brow at me. Sucks the peanut butter offhis fingers.

I pop the cereal into my mouth and start crunching.“Just because your people are pretty, doesn’t mean they’renot Neanderthals inside.”

“Based on what you’ve told me, I’m guessing that theriot wasn’t what Uri had in mind. Any soldier could havetold him that’s what was going to happen. You dangle theapocalypse in front of frustrated warriors unclear abouttheir mission and you have a bit of a tussle on your hands.”

“A bit of a tussle?”“Too old-fashioned?” He scoops up more peanut

butter. He seems to prefer not to mix it with cereal.“People were torn to pieces. Literally. In bloody,

little, horrible bits. That’s not exactly a tussle.”

“And I’m sorry about that but there was nothing Icould do to stop it.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He soundscold and calculating and pragmatic.

“What’s with all the cheering over the apocalypse,anyway? Oh, yay, we get to kill poor helpless humans.” Isound cranky. I dip my handful of cereal into the peanutbutter, making sure I leave some of the cereal in it. Forgood measure, I drop a couple of raisins in it too.

“The excitement over the apocalypse has nothing todo with humans.”

“Could have fooled me.”He peers into the contaminated peanut butter jar. He

throws me an arch look and puts it back down withoutdipping into it. “Humans are incidental.”

“Killing and destroying an entire species isincidental?” I can’t help but sound like I’m accusing him,even though I know he wasn’t part of the plan to wipe usout.

Or at least, I think he wasn’t personally involved, butI don’t really know that, do I?

“Your people have been doing it to all kinds ofspecies.” He grabs the cereal box.

“That’s not the same.” I grab the peanut butter jar.“Why not?”“Can we please just get back to how your people are

partying over killing my people?” I scoop out more peanutbutter.

He watches me licking the peanut butter off myfingers. “They’re celebrating the possibility of freeingtheir friends.”

“Angels have friends?” I pucker my lips around myfinger, sucking every bit of the treat off it.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and glares at me.“When you fight side-by-side with other warriors, theybecome your brothers. Every one of us has a brother whohas fallen. The only thing that offers any hope for them isJudgment Day. On that day, they finally get their trial.”

“An eternity of punishment comes before the trial?”I’m about to dip my fingers into the jar again when hedumps cereal into it. I’ll have to eat through the cerealbefore I can lick up more peanut butter.

“The system is purposely harsh to keep everyone inline. It’s what keeps our warrior society together.”

I poke my finger in the cereal-peanut butter mix,wondering if he’s annoyed. “And if they’re judged guilty?”My finger comes out with a dab of peanut butter on the tip.I lick it off, savoring the last of the sweet taste.

He gets up abruptly and starts pacing the room. “Theneternity gets longer.”

I know the answer to my next question, but I need toask anyway. “And when does Judgment Day happen?”

“At the end of the apocalypse.”I nod. “Right. The one that everyone’s so eager to

have.” Being right never seems to make me feel better

these days.He takes a deep breath and releases it as if needing to

blow off steam. “Let’s go find my sword.”I hate to waste time flying to Pier 39 but both the

sword and Mom’s tracker are there. That tracker is stillmy best bet for finding Paige. Besides, I might get achance to see if Mom, Clara, and the others made it off theisland. If they didn’t, maybe there’s something I can do tohelp them.

Doc had said that the scorpions would be outsomewhere tonight and now I know that Beliel must haveorchestrated the locusts’ flyby over the angel death rally.The Alcatraz escape should have either succeeded orfailed by now. I can’t even stomach the thought of whatmight be happening now if it failed.

I quickly find an oversized coat and a pair of tennisshoes that fit me surprisingly well. In the meantime, Raffepicks out a wicked-looking kitchen knife and sticks it inhis waistband, sheath and all.

Outside, the fog has lifted, showing a crisp night withthe waning moon and stars reflecting off the ocean.Between us and the sea is a beach blanketed by pieces ofwood and glass from pulverized houses.

The broken glass reflects the light from the sky like acarpet of flickering fireflies that stretches out as far as Ican see. It’s so unexpectedly beautiful that I pause to lookat it. How can something so wondrous come out of such

devastation?I glance over at Raffe to see if he’s appreciating the

same thing. But he’s watching me instead.I walk over to him, feeling self-conscious. Flying in

his arms earlier was the business of war, and we didn’thave much time to think about anything other than escape.

This time it’s by choice, and I can’t help but thinkabout his strong arms holding me and his warm skinbrushing against mine.

I lift my arms like a child who wants to be picked up.He hesitates for a second, looking at me. Is he

remembering holding me in his arms at the old aerie whenhe thought I was dead? What must it be like for him to holdsomeone this many times after being isolated for so long?

He lifts me in his arms, cradling me while I wrap myarms around his neck. My cheek brushes against his as hepicks me up. Warmth flows from the touch and I resist theimpulse to nuzzle.

He runs two steps and we’re in the air, headingtoward Alcatraz.

If I hadn’t already flown with him, I’d be scared. I’mabove the water with nothing but his arms between me andan icy plunge. But his arms are wrapped tightly around meand his chest is warm. I lean my head against his muscularshoulder and close my eyes.

He rubs his cheek against my hair.I know that soon I’ll have to think about Paige, Mom,

and Clara. My priorities will be all about survival andgetting my family together and keeping them safe frommonsters and people alike.

But for now, for just for this moment, I let myself be aseventeen-year-old girl in a strong guy’s arms. I even letsome of the what-ifs seep in, the kind of possibilities thatmight have blossomed between us in the World Before.

Just for a little while.Before I carefully fold my dreams away into the vault

in my head.

INSTEAD OF flying up the peninsula, we fly acrossit until we reach the San Francisco Bay. From there, theplan is to fly up the length of the bay, roughly followingthe peninsula coastline. It’s a longer route to Alcatraz butthe fog sits thick over the water, just as we suspected.With all the angels and scorpions in the air tonight, Raffefigured we’d be better off flying over water, and he wasright.

The air is damp and the wind is harsh. Despite mycoat, Raffe is my true source of warmth, and I can’t helpbut bask in the feel of his body as we whoosh through thefog.

Raffe cocks his head like he hears something.He veers to investigate. I have no idea how he even

knows we’re going in the right direction in the middle of

this cloud, much less how he can pinpoint some minornoise that I can’t even hear, but he does.

We glide out of the thickest fog and skim silentlyalong the bottom tendrils of mist hanging over the bay. Thesmoky moonlight glows faintly against the oily darknessbelow.

I hear the muffled sound of engines chugging in thewater before I see the boats.

Below us, half-a-dozen boats work their way throughthe bay. I don’t see Captain Jake’s ferry. Of course,there’s no reason why it should be here, but I can’t helpbut hope that these are the Alcatraz escapees. These boatsare smaller and sleeker but still large enough to carrydozens of people each.

Did Dee and Dum manage to bring together a rescueteam?

If so, I’m impressed. That would mean they wereable to gather enough boats to hopefully get everyone outin one trip. And it looks like they also smartly decided totake advantage of the darkness and fog by traveling overwater instead of land.

Raffe glides down, circling silently near the ships, ascurious as I am about what’s happening.

The decks are covered with people huddling togetherfor warmth. Someone must have caught a glimpse of ourdarker shape against the sky because the engines shut offand the boats float silently through the night. There are

men with rifles pointed at the sky, but most of them are notpointed at us, so we must not be very visible. And the bestnews is that none of the guns go off.

I’m guessing they have orders to shoot only as a lastresort since the noise from a single shot could beckon ahorde of monsters to them. The boats seem to be doingokay silently drifting through the fog. If this is the Alcatrazescape, they’ve probably been on the water for hours,which means they’ve had their engines off most of thetime.

There is no light, motion, or sound anywhere excepton the roof of the largest boat that’s leading the fleet. Thereflection from the water’s ripples and the moonlit glowof the mist are enough to see that there’s something tied tothe roof.

It’s a thrashing scorpion.Someone hovers over the writhing monster. As we

silently glide past, I get a better look.The beast’s body and tail are securely tied. Its mouth

is gagged and making a muffled hiss as it tries franticallyto sting the woman who bends over it.

The woman is absorbed in whatever she’s doing anddoesn’t notice us. She’s drawing something on its chest. Ican’t see her face but there’s only one person she couldbe.

My mother is alive and apparently uninjured.Two men holding rifles stand on either side of her.

I’m guessing by the bulging arms of one and the yuppiecollar of the other that they’re probably Tattoo and Alpha.If so, Mom must have impressed the hell out of themduring the escape or they wouldn’t be protecting her as shedraws on a scorpion.

We sweep over the boat, but it’s too dark for me tosee what she’s writing.

“She’s drawn a heart on his chest in lipstick and iswriting ‘Penryn and Paige’ inside the heart,” whispersRaffe in my ear. We circle back on our way to the pier.“Now she’s drawing flowers on his stomach.”

I can’t help but smile and shake my head.I feel lighter.And for a moment, I hold Raffe tighter in what some

people might mistake as a hug.

PIER 39 is mostly as I remember it. Broken plankssticking out every which way, demolished buildings, aboat on its side.

Captain Jake’s ferry has been driven into the pier,plowing the planks in a crown of jagged splinters. Theship sits lower than it should, slowly sinking. A spotlightfrom the deck remains on and throws a ghostly ray of lightacross the pier.

So not everyone chose to go down the bay to thepeninsula. Some must have wanted to take the shortestcrossing to the mainland and then scattered. That wouldmake sense if you thought your chances were better onland than on water, or if you had loved ones in the city.But whoever piloted the ship probably wasn’t CaptainJake. Unless he was seriously drunk, which is a real

possibility.We circle above the pier, scoping out the situation.

Looters scatter when they glimpse our moon shadow. Acouple of them are just kids. Word must be getting aroundabout the valuables left on the pier. I wonder if they haveany idea how dangerous it is for them to be here?

As soon as everyone disappears, we land silently inthe shadows.

Raffe holds me a second longer than necessary beforehe puts me down. And then it takes me a second longerthan necessary to slide my arms away from his neck andstep back from his warmth. Anyone watching us mightassume we were a couple kissing in the dark.

The lights illuminate the beams and planks stickingup on the dock. The moist air of our breaths condensesinto mist and swirls together as we watch and listen tomake sure no one is around.

Someone is crying.There’s a lone figure sitting in the debris of a half-

standing candy shop. She’s trying to be quiet but the softsobs are unmistakable.

There’s something about the shriveled figure and thevoice that seems familiar. I gesture for Raffe to stay backwhile I go talk to the person. I skirt around the beam oflight to reach her.

It’s Clara. She hugs her shriveled body, looking evensmaller than usual. The cheeks that look like beef jerky

glisten with tears as she sobs alone.“Hey, Clara. It’s me, Penryn.” I call softly to her

from a few feet away so I don’t scare her to death. Shegasps, and it’s clear I practically give her a heart attackanyway.

She half-smiles and half-sobs when she realizes it’sme. I walk over and sit by her. The broken boards are hardand damp. I can’t believe she’s been sitting here for hours.

“Why are you still here? You should be running as faraway as you can.”

“This place is as close as I can get to my familynow.” Her voice breaks. “We had happy Sundays here.”She shakes her head slowly. “That, and I have nowhereelse to go.”

I’m about to tell her to go to the Resistance campwhen I remember how they treated her and the otherscorpion victims. People who would rather bury theirloved ones alive than risk having them changed like Clarawill probably never accept someone like her. No wondershe didn’t go down the bay with the Resistance.

I put my arm around her shoulder and give her asqueeze. It’s all I can think to do.

She gives me a weak smile but tears streak down herface again and her face crumples.

Something clanks and rolls nearby.We both tense, proving that Clara is not quite ready

to give up.

A grubby little girl with a mass of finely tangled hairruns a couple of steps out of hiding behind a car. An adultarm reaches out and tries to grab her.

“No, it’s her,” says the girl. “I heard her. She’shere.”

Someone whispers urgently from behind the car.The girl shakes her head. She turns and runs toward

us.“Get back here!” whispers the urgent voice from

behind the car. A man sprints out, running half-crouched.He snatches the little thing into his arms and runs back.The kid squirms like a sack of puppies. She kicks andtwists and tries to scream bloody murder but he has hishand over her mouth.

Her muffled yells sound a lot like, “Mommy!”Beside me, Clara sits perfectly still.A second girl’s face peeks out from behind the car.

She’s a little bigger but just as grubby with hair just astangled. She looks wide-eyed at us.

“Ella?” Clara whispers so softly that even I havetrouble hearing her. She gets up, almost panting. “Ella?”She lurches, then runs toward them.

Uh-oh. This could be really wonderful or reallyawful.

It’s dark and we’re far enough away that I’m prettysure they can’t see the details of what Clara looks like yet.I get up and follow discreetly in case she needs backup.

Not that I can really help her if her family rejects her, butat least she’ll know she has one person in her corner.

The man freezes on his way to the car. He turnsaround with the girl in his arms. The kid is going ballisticwith her muffled screams of “Mommy!”

The second girl steps gingerly out from behind thecar. “Mom?” She sounds totally lost and unsure.

“Chloe.” Clara sobs out her name as she runs towardthem.

The older girl approaches Clara. I’m about to have afull-blown smile on my face when the girl stumbles to astop, staring wide-eyed at her mom. She’s close enoughnow to see us better. I see Clara again the way my mothersees her, the way the others see her. She really does looklike she crawled out of her grave after being dead for awhile.

Please don’t scream, Chloe. That would be the end ofClara.

She was strong enough to survive a scorpion attack,strong enough to crawl out of being buried alive andescape from monsters on Alcatraz. But having her littlegirl scream at the sight of her would shatter her into somany pieces that nothing could glue her back together.

Clara’s steps falter and she stops too. Her face shiftsfrom amazed delight to horrible uncertainty.

The younger girl has managed to squirm out of theman’s arms and dashes over to us. Unlike her sister, she

has no hesitation about jumping into Clara’s arms.“I knew it was you!” The girl looks like she’s about

to melt with happiness as she hugs her mom. “Daddy madeus wait until we knew for sure. We watched forever. Youjust cried and cried and we couldn’t tell. Then you startedtalking and I knew! I heard your voice and I knew. SeeDaddy? I told you.”

But Daddy stands frozen a few steps away, staring atClara.

Clara strokes Ella’s hair with a trembling hand.“Yes, baby girl, you were right. I missed you so much. Sovery much.” She looks fearfully at Chloe and her husband,her eyes begging.

Chloe takes a hesitant step toward her. “Mom? Is itreally you? What happened to you?”

“Yes, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m all right,” says Clara.“I’m all right now.” She puts out her arm in an invitationand Chloe gingerly steps into it.

Dad yanks the girl back. “Is it contagious?”“What?” Clara looks confused.“Are you contagious?” Dad enunciates every word

like she no longer speaks his language.“No,” whispers Clara. Her voice cracks and I know

she’s barely holding it together. “I swear.”Chloe slips out of her dad’s hold. She pauses, staring

at Clara. Then she hesitantly steps into Clara’s arm. Oncethere, though, the older girl clings onto her mom as tightly

as her baby sister.Clara’s husband stares at them, looking like he’s torn

between running to join his family and simply runningaway. He stands there, watching his kids chatter to theirmom about how they came here to scavenge, that they’dheard valuable things were left here on the dock. Howthey’d begged their dad to come here one last time. Howthey pretended they were coming here for their Sundaylunch like they used to.

Hearing Clara chat softly with her girls brings up apicture of a mom that every kid deserves to have. The girlslook cozy and happy in the shelter of their mother. I’mguessing that feels pretty great.

Eventually, their dad steps over to Clara like a manin a dream. Without a word, he enfolds all of them in a hugand begins to cry.

I can almost see this pier the way it was when Claraand her husband brought the kids here for lunch. The soundof the seagulls, the salty smell of the ocean on the breeze,and the warmth of the California sun. I can see the couplewalking hand-in-hand as the girls run ahead. Clara, theway she used to be with fresh skin and a smile, holdingflowers from the farmers’ market, laughing with herhusband on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

I melt back into the shadows.

I BRACE for Raffe to be sarcastic about Clara’s littlereunion. He’s leaning against a shop wall that is mostlyintact—a dark, menacing figure against the night. If I didn’tknow him, I would walk a long way around to avoid him.

When I get close enough to see his face, there’s nosarcasm in it. He watches Clara’s reunion with her familywith far more sympathy than I could have ever predictedfor an angel, even Raffe.

But then I remember Beliel’s comment about howangels weren’t meant to be alone. So maybe heunderstands better than I give him credit for.

“I’m revoking your warrior status,” he says as hewatches Clara and her family.

“I had warrior status?”“For about thirty seconds.”

“What heinous crime did I commit to lose my exaltedstatus?”

“A true warrior would have retrieved her sword firstbefore doing personal business.”

“I’m all about personal business. Every battle I haveis personal.” I lead Raffe toward the pile of broken woodand shingles where I hid the sword.

“Hmm. Good answer. Maybe you’ll eventually regainyour status.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” I shove the wooden debrisout of the way until I see the smudged face of the teddybear. “There she is.” I carefully pull out the bear andsword. I proudly flip the bridal veil skirt to show him thescabbard.

Raffe stares at the disguised sword for a secondbefore commenting. “Do you know how many kills thissword has?”

“It’s a perfect disguise, Raffe.”“This sword is not just an angel sword. She’s an

archangel sword. Better than an angel sword, in casethat’s not clear. She intimidates the other angel swords.”

“What, the other swords quake in their scabbardswhen they see her?” I walk over to the pile of scatteredjunk by Captain Jake’s boat.

“Yes, if you must know,” he says following me. “Shewas made for ultimate respect. How is she supposed to getthat disguised as a teddy bear in a bridal gown?”

“It’s not a bridal gown, it’s a skirt for her scabbard.And it’s cute.”

“She hates cute. She wants to maim and scar cute.”“Nobody hates cute.”“Angel swords do.” He arches his brow and stares

down at me.I guess I won’t tell him how many cutesy angel

figurines and pictures we used to have in the WorldBefore.

Mom’s tracker should be here but I don’t see it in thescattered debris. I do spot a detachable strap hanging outof a purse with keys tethered to it, though. I’ve beenmeaning to tether the bear to the scabbard and this looksperfect. I clip one end around the ribbon sewn to thebear’s neck and the other end to the scabbard’s strap.

“Have you named her yet?” he asks. “She likespowerful names so maybe you could appease her bygiving her a good one.”

I bite my lip as I remember telling Dee-Dum what Inamed my sword. “Um, I could rename her anything shelikes.” I give him a cheesy smile.

He looks like he’s bracing himself for the worst.“She gets named once by each carrier. If you’ve namedher, she’s stuck with it for as long as she’s with you.”

Damn.He glares at me as if he already hates it. “What is it?”I consider lying but what’s the point? I clear my

throat. “Pooky Bear.”He’s silent for so long I’m beginning to think he

didn’t hear me when he finally says, “Pooky. Bear.”“It was just a little joke. I didn’t know.”“I’ve mentioned that names have power, right? Do

you realize that when she fights battles, she’s going tohave to announce herself to the opposing sword? She’ll beforced to say something ridiculous like, ‘I am Pooky Bear,from an ancient line of archangel swords.’ Or, ‘Bow downto me, Pooky Bear, who has only two other equals in allthe worlds.’ ” He shakes his head. “How is she going toget any respect?”

“Oh, come on, seriously? No one’s going to respectthat kind of pompous announcement anyway, regardless ofthe name.” I sling the sword strap around my shoulder, andthe bear sword settles on my hip where it belongs.

I spot Mom’s tracker sitting by a purse. I rush to itand turn it on.

“You’d be surprised at how many would-beopponents I’ve dispatched just by announcing that I amRaphael, the Great Archangel, the Wrath of God.” Hegives me an intimidating look.

It occurs to me that because of the demon wings, he’slost the power of using his name and title too. I see by thesadness in his eyes that he’s thinking the same thing.

On the tracker, a yellow arrow pops up at Half MoonBay near the aerie. I sigh heavily. Just for once, couldn’t I

find my sister somewhere safe and easy?“Paige is at the aerie.”Raffe gives me a don’t-you-dare look. “You mean the

place where I barely got you out alive because they werekilling every human they could get their hands on?”

“Thank you, by the way.”He rakes his fingers through his hair, looking

agitated. “Look, I’m sure I could find you a nice littlebomb shelter somewhere with two years worth ofsupplies.”

“I’m guessing those are all taken.”“And I’m guessing someone would happily give one

up for you, especially if I asked nicely.” He gives me adry smile. “You could take a little vacation from all thisand come out after things settle down. Hole up, wait it out,be safe.”

“You’d better be careful. You might be mistaken forsomeone who’s worried about me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m just worried someone mightrecognize my sword in your hands. If I squirrel you awayfor a couple of years, then maybe I can save myself theembarrassment.”

I bite my lip to keep from asking but it comes outanyway. “And what would you do while I was hiddenaway?”

“Get my wings back. Find out what’s happening withmy people and set things right.” He takes a deep breath.

“And once I get my business settled, I’d return home withthem.”

I nod, digging my nails into my palm to help mefocus. “I can’t say I’m not tempted, Raffe. Being safesounds wonderful.” I give him a sad smile. “Maybe I cantake you up on your offer just as soon as I get my familyback together. I mean, if you’re still around and arewilling to help.”

He sighs. “I miss the days when females could beordered around and they’d have no choice.”

“Sure that wasn’t just a myth? I’m pretty sure nobodyever ordered my mom around—ever.”

“You’re probably right. The unruliness of the womenin your family must go back for generations. You’re like aplague upon the land.”

“So long as we’re also a plague upon angels, I’msure everyone else will forgive us.”

“Oh, you’re definitely a plague upon at least oneangel. Is there anything I can say that will stop you fromgoing to the aerie?”

I pause to think about that. “I wish there was. My lifewould be a whole lot easier.”

“What if I refuse to help you get there?”“Then I’ll walk or drive.”“What if I drag you into a prison and lock you up?”“Then I’ll use my nifty little sword to cut my way

out.”

“What if I leave my sword outside the prison?”“You won’t. If you can’t have it, you want me to have

it, right? We’re better off together than apart.”Our eyes meet.“Besides, who’d let me out if something happens to

you?”He throws me a sideways glance, like the thought of

something happening to him is ridiculous.“Beliel is probably still at the aerie,” I say.“And why would you think that?”“The doctor who operated on Paige thinks that she’s

drawn to Beliel. Who knows what strange animal sensethey put into her? She might have a sense of where he is.” Ilift Mom’s tracker. “I’m tracking Paige. She’s trackingBeliel. You can’t stop me from following Paige so whynot take advantage of the situation and just fly me there?”

He glares at me. “I’ve had to watch you die once,isn’t that enough?”

“All you have to do is make sure it doesn’t happenagain.” I give him a sunny smile. “Simple.”

“The only thing simple is you. Stubborn little…” Hisgrumbles fade to the point where I can’t hear them, but Isuspect they’re not compliments.

Eventually, he puts out his arms.It’s unnerving to be so close to him that I feel his

heart beat against my breasts. I hold him tightly as heopens his wings and we take off into the night.

WE SKIM so close to the water that we might as wellbe swimming. I keep expecting us to fly right through alarge swell. As it is, the spray feels like an icy shower. Ibury my face in Raffe’s neck, seeking his endless warmth.

It’s so cold that my arms want to crack and fall off inprotest. It’s no consolation that this is the only way we canget near the aerie without being seen. If we had flown overland, they would have spotted us.

Raffe is stoic and calm this close to the water despitehaving swum probably only once in his entire existence.I’m a little less calm. I can’t help but think that this mightbe the last thing I do. I can’t get the images of the crazedwarriors sprayed in blood out of my head.

Raffe holds me tighter. “It’s about time you showedsome sense. You should be afraid.”

“I’m shivering because I’m freezing.”“You’re cute when you’re afraid.”I give him a dirty look. “Yeah, you’re cute when

you’re afraid too.”He actually bursts out laughing. “You mean I’m

devastatingly handsome when I’m not afraid. Becauseyou’ve never seen me afraid.”

“I said you were cute, not ‘devastatinglyhandsome.’ ”

We’re nearing the shore. So far, the sound of wavescrashing onto the sand and rocks should have disguisedour banter. But we’re getting close enough that we bothinstinctively shut up.

We, of course, don’t have a plan. We’ll simply haveto see what’s going on and take it from there. We drift alittle to the side of the new aerie so that we can go onshore unnoticed. We land on the beach below the bluff atthe edge of the hotel grounds.

Hiding behind rocks, fences, and bushes, we sneak upas close as we dare near the circle of light by the edge ofthe hotel’s lawn. New torches have been set up to replacethe old ones that got knocked down during the brawl. Butthey’re placed randomly and at drunken angles as ifwhoever put them up couldn’t be bothered with them.

I try to match Raffe’s stealth and smoothcoordination, but my frozen limbs are clumsy, and I haveto grab him several times to keep myself from tipping

over. He throws me a look with a clear message that Ishould deal with my issues.

We dart to a row of low bushes and follow themcloser to the lawn. The edges of the grounds are crammedwith the remains of the party like debris washed up onshore. Fallen party tables, upside-down lounge chairs,torn costumes, and other broken things.

The lawn also has a motley carpet of trampled wingcoverings, masks, and shattered things that are now hard toidentify. There are dark patches on the grass that probablylook red in daylight. If there are any servants left, they’renot inclined to come out and clean up.

The angels scattered on the lawn seem too hung overto notice much. One group is singing in the middle of thegrass, still wearing their masks. Their voices blendbeautifully but with all their swaying and kicking ofdebris, they look more like drunken pirates after a raid.

Another group is putting something together near themansion-like hotel. They’re setting up a table withwooden boxes. Beside it are poles of different heights.

An angel hovers at the top of the poles, tyingtriangular flags that wave colorfully in the ocean breezelike castle flags. Two angels fly up with a banner in theirhands. They tie it to the top of the two highest poles. It hasseveral symbols that run across the banner like script.

Raffe’s eyes become cold and hostile as he looks atthe banner.

I give him a questioning look, asking him what itsays.

He leans over, his words barely slipping into my ear.“Vote for Uriel today, start the apocalypse by tomorrow.”

I don’t understand all the implications of angelpolitics but I know this isn’t good. They’re setting up anelection booth for the Messenger.

Another banner goes up, this one angled up so it canbe seen from above. One of the angels unfurling the banneris a giant with snow-white wings. Beliel.

Raffe and I exchange a look and we head his way.As we sneak closer, Raffe finds wing coverings

draped over a bush. A ripped layer of sequins hangs overthe dark feathers but he easily discards them, leaving onlythe feather coverings. He swings them over his wings andI help the feathers lie flat.

He also grabs one of the discarded masks as ittumbles off the lawn in the ocean breeze. I tie it on forhim. The mask is deep red shot through with silver aroundthe eyes and cheeks. It covers his entire face except hismouth.

He gets up and without a word pulls me up besidehim, placing himself between me and the hotel lawn. Ihave to peek around him to see the angels, which meansthey can’t see me either. Raffe is big enough to hide me.From a distance, we must look like a warrior walking tothe other side of what was once the party.

I worry that angels might fly directly overhead andsee me. Luckily, they must be hung over or somethingbecause none of them are energetic enough to fly beyondwhat’s necessary. We walk briskly near the edge of thelawn, getting ever closer to Beliel. I keep up with Raffe,which is not too difficult since he’s walking at a casualpace.

Beliel stands behind Uriel. He’s at the edge ofUriel’s entourage as Uriel gives them orders.

Raffe glances up at the sky and I wonder if he hearssomething. Beliel also looks up toward the same place. Heleans over to Uriel and they have a quick exchange.

One by one, the angels pause in their tasks and alllook up. The dull roar that blended so well with thecrashing waves is becoming thunderous and hard toignore.

A cloud darker than the night sky swarms toward us.It twists, expands, then contracts, swinging this way andthat.

The angry sound of a thousand scorpion wings isunmistakable as they fly over our heads.

SHADOWS SWOOP DOWN beyond thereach of the torches at the edge of the lawn. Raffe watchesa scene that’s too dark for me to see. I catch a glimpse ofshadows flying back up into the air, though, giving me animpression of iridescent insect wings.

Out of the darkness walks little Paige.She moves stiffly and carefully as if she was part

machine, part girl. In the torchlight, the stitches that runacross her face are red-black and her razor-edged teethreflect the flames as she passes by the torches.

Now that I’m looking for it, she does move likesomeone in pain but her expression doesn’t show it. She’stoughing it out, maybe because it probably hurts to winceor make any expression. I never knew she had such steel inher.

Beliel tilts his head, watching her as she walkstoward him.

“Little Worm,” he says. “Is that you?” His mouthstretches into a smile that’s part surprise and part pride.“You’re no longer crawling in the dirt.”

He puts out his hand. “You’re coming into your own,aren’t you?”

It kills me to see my baby sister slip her small handinto his.

Doc was right. Somewhere in me, I clung to the hopethat he was off his rocker. But seeing her turn to a demonlike Beliel only reminds me how horrible it must havebeen for her to be with the rest of us.

Paige looks up at him. Her neck strains as she meetshis eyes. Holding hands like that, they could almost befather and daughter.

Beliel partially opens his stolen wings and holds upPaige’s hand as he turns to smile at Uriel. His smile says,See? Look at my trophies.

Paige tugs his arm so that Beliel ends up leaningdown toward her. For a second, I think she might give hima kiss. The thought makes my stomach roil.

Instead, she leaps and bites into his neck.She shakes her head like a rabid dog as a chunk of his

neck comes ripping off in her mouth.Beliel shrieks.Blood flows everywhere.

Uriel and his entourage jump back from the attack.Everyone else just stops in the middle of whatever they’redoing and stares.

The buzzing above gets more frantic as the swarm ofscorpions twists in the distance and heads back for anotherflyby. Hadn’t the scorpions been following Beliel’scommands all this time? Will they be angry?

Paige spits out the still attached piece of flesh andgrabs Beliel’s head before he can pull out of her reach.She rips into his face.

Three scorpions dive toward them from the sky.I gasp, thinking they are attacking Paige.But instead, they grab Beliel.Their stingers zap in and out, pumping him full of

paralysis venom.Instead of finishing him off, Paige begins kicking him.

Screams at him. Rips out clumps of his hair and skin. Shetears out chunks of his flesh and spits them into his face.

And all the while, she is crying.I am mesmerized by the sight of my little sister raging

against Beliel. He’s no small opponent, but she caught himutterly by surprise.

I have never seen a seven-year-old with this muchfury. I’ve certainly never seen Paige with anything like thismuch anger. She pummels him with her tiny fists in a waythat I know is more about dealing with her internal demonsthan about the demon that is Beliel.

It feels like my heart chars and turns to crumbling ashas I watch the remnants of my sister. Salty wetness touchesmy lips before I even realize I’m crying.

The ocean wind blows against me, making me shiverlike a frail petal in a storm.

RAFFE RUNS along the cliff toward Beliel anddives toward a scorpion. He grabs it just before it’s aboutto plunge its talon-like fingers into Beliel’s back.

At first, I’m confused. Why is Raffe protectingBeliel?

But as the blood trickles from Beliel’s neck onto hissnowy wings, I understand. Raffe deflects Paige’s handsfrom ripping out a fistful of feathers.

Instead, she grabs Beliel’s hair and tears it out. Whitefeathers puff out as the group wrestles.

While Raffe, Beliel, Paige and three scorpions fight,the angels on the lawn watch curiously. They don’t seeminclined to jump in to save Beliel. My guess is that thosewho’ve met him don’t like him, and those who haven’tmight sense that he doesn’t belong with them.

Raffe’s mask is still on his face but he’s not the onlyone still in costume. No one takes notice of me, as if thehumans they were so focused on just a few hours ago don’treally matter now.

I glance around to see if there’s anything I can slinkback behind. There is nothing unless I’m willing to hidebehind a bush that’s too far away for me to see anything.Nearby, there’s only the ocean, cliff, grass, andtorchlights.

The trickle of angels quickly turns into a flood. Theoddity of it must be fueling their curiosity. They crowd inand jostle me. Late-coming angel spectators have to taketo the air to see the action.

Above us, a cloud of scorpions dips and dives,approaching, then receding like a hive of bees agitatingaround their nest.

I end up on the inner edge of the wall of bodies. Somuch for not bringing attention to ourselves. I stroke thesoft fur of my teddy bear sword, trying to stay calm.

Beliel’s tortured screams fill the night.Everyone watches as he gets mercilessly torn and

stung. Aside from Raffe, who is only protecting his wings,not a single living thing comes to his aid. No one evencringes sympathetically for him.

Beliel was right. He is unloved and unwanted.Paige, who has been panting and crying over Beliel

finally looks up and seems to notice the angels for the first

time. Even in this light, I can see the fear and uncertaintydawning on her face as her eyes move from coldheartedwarrior to warrior.

The angels are partially lit by torches, looking savagewith red-tinged shadows flickering along their faces.

Her eyes pause when she sees me. She blinks severaltimes as if unsure that it’s me. Her face scrunches up,giving the eerie illusion that the stitched-up monster meltsaway from her face, leaving a terribly upset Paige in itswake.

She looks the way she did in the video in Beliel’scell—tiny, alone, lost. A little kid trying to hang onto thebelief that her big sister will come and save her.

I extend my arms out toward her, realizing how longit’s been since I’ve touched her. She’s not the same Paigethat I knew but I can’t write her off as a monster, either. Ifwe’re all going down, at least I’ll be able to comfort mybaby sister in the last few moments of our lives.

Paige drops her gaze and looks unsure of herself.Tears leave track marks in the blood on her face.

I step into the center circle and walk over to her. Hercrying intensifies as I get nearer. When I reach her, shewraps her arms around my waist as tight as can be.

My little sister looks up at me.Mom was right. Her eyes are the same as they’ve

always been. Brown eyes fringed with long lashes andsteeped with the memory of sweetness and light, laughter

and joy—trapped in this mangled, corpse-like face.“It’s all right, baby girl,” I whisper into her hair as I

hug her. “I’m here. I came for you.”Her face crumples and her eyes shine. “You came for

me.”I stroke her hair. It’s as silky as ever.

AT RAFFE’S FEET, Beliel lies on the dirt. Hebleeds through gashes, bites, and missing chunks. Thethree scorpions latch their mouths onto his open woundsand begin to suck him dry like enormous leeches withstingers.

Beliel yells, clumsily batting away the scorpionswith the last of his energy.

Beliel’s skin becomes parched and begins to crinkle.Soon, I know he’ll shrivel and his flesh will look like beefjerky.

Raffe glances at the angels watching them, then backat Beliel’s shriveling skin. Even with his mask, I can tellhe doesn’t want to do anything drastic in front of theangels. But he can’t let his wings be sucked dry andshrivel. And even if he could get these scorpions off

Beliel, more could come down from the sky.He spreads one of Beliel’s stolen wings and holds it

firmly in one hand. From his waistband, he pulls out thekitchen knife he took from the beach house. It reflects thetorch flames as he raises it, just before he swings downwith the blade.

Beliel, still not entirely paralyzed, shrieks as Raffecuts through his wing joint.

The wing falls on the ground.The angels watch, stunned.Raffe lifts his knife again.A few warriors leap toward Raffe with their wings

spread back and their fists ready. They think he’s cuttingoff an angel’s wings and that they’re defending their own. Iguess it’s one thing to let an angel fend for himself againsta little girl and her pets but not against another angelamputating his wings.

But they can’t reach him fast enough. Raffe slicesthrough Beliel’s second wing.

The snowy wing falls to the ground, still glorious andfull of life.

Raffe kicks at the first angel to reach him.He fights hand-to-hand with the first two angels who

come at him. He yells at them, probably trying to explainwhat’s really going on but his words get lost among theroar of the scorpions above, the angry clamor of theangels, and the crashing of the waves.

He can hold his own with the first two but a third onepulls out his sword.

The only effective weapon Raffe has is his demonwings which are still hidden beneath the feathereddisguise. He backs up, hesitating to show them to so manyangels even though it’s unlikely that anyone will recognizehim with his mask. But his attacker gives him no choice ashe winds up to slice with his sword.

Raffe’s demon wings burst open.The crowd becomes silent. The scorpion buzzing

fades as they finish their flyby. And Raffe’s wing scythesslide out with a snick.

His scythes clang and deflect against his opponent’ssword. The sword flies into the air and lands on the lawn.

Raffe lowers his chin and glares at the angels with amenacing look. With his giant bat wings behind him andthe scythes glinting red by the torchlight, he’s the perfectpicture of the devil.

The two severed wings lie on either side of Beliel.The white feathers blowing in the breeze look surreallyout of place on the blood-soaked ground. Raffe’s festivemask only adds to the horror of it as he looms over Beliel.

As everyone stares, the only sound is the buzz of thelocusts flying away and the waves smashing against thecliffs below.

Then the sound of a hundred angel swords beingpulled from their scabbards fills the night.

MY BREATH comes out shaky and I don’t think Ican feel my fingers. I can’t see a way out of this.

Raffe stands over Beliel, watching the warriors allaround him. His eyes are fierce but it’s obvious that oursituation looks pretty bad. Even if Raffe was in his bestform, he couldn’t fight off an entire legion of his ownpeople, even assuming that he wanted to.

Paige and I are just as surrounded as Raffe. My sisterseems to have some new tricks up her sleeve but the oddsaren’t exactly in our favor. I look around to see if there’s agap in the wall of angels that I could sneak Paige throughto safety but there is none.

We’re trapped.They’ve fanned out around us, cut off every direction

—land, water, and air. I guess this isn’t the first time

they’ve trapped their quarry. They know how to move infor the kill, I’ll give them that.

Several angels step toward Raffe with their swords.He assesses them, then glances at his wings on the groundas if memorizing their location. He steps over Beliel’shead to get in front of his wings for the fight.

The scorpions watch Raffe with a wary eye butcontinue their life-sucking of Beliel as he shrivels. Whenthe angel swords clash with Raffe’s wing scythes, thescorpions startle and fly away.

Beliel’s eyes stare blankly while the rest of himbleeds through gashes, bites, and missing chunks. If Ididn’t know better, I’d assume he was dead.

Raffe tries to keep the angels from treading on hiswings but there’s only so much you can do when you’refighting for your life.

I get down on the ground and snatch a snowy wingbefore anyone tramples it. I quickly fold it and hand it toPaige.

“Hold this. Don’t let anything happen to it.”I duck to the other side of Raffe and crawl on the

ground to grab the other wing just as an angel is about tostep on it. Above me, Raffe slices and blocks in a frenzyof motion with his demon wings.

I crawl backwards with the wing to get out of theway. I fold the wing and give it to Paige. The wings arelight but they practically cover her whole body as she

holds them in her arms.I guide Paige back away from the fight. But our way

is blocked by a warrior who glares down at us.In the torchlight, his wings look more like flames but

I know that they would be burnt orange under a streetlight.It’s Burnt, the one who kidnapped Paige out of spite.

He looks the same as he did in Doc’s surveillancevideo—bitter and mean. He takes a step toward us.

“There you are,” says Burnt as he reaches for Paige.“You finally came in handy for something, didn’t you? It’sabout time someone took that reject down.”

I push Paige behind me and yank the bear from mysword. I’m almost glad that I get a chance to fight him. Ihave a special hatred for Burnt, the Kidnapper of HelplessLittle Girls.

BURNT LOOKS at me like I’m a mosquito. “Whatare you going to do? Pummel me with your teddy bear?”

I pull my sword out and get in my combat position.He actually bursts out laughing. “You’re going to

fight me with your tin sword, little girl?”I can almost feel the rage pulsing from Raffe who is

fighting several warriors.Burnt casually swipes at me with his sword.I automatically meet his steely blow with my own.

The dream training must have worked, at least to somedegree.

Burnt looks surprised. But that doesn’t stop him fromimmediately winding up for his next blow. I can tell hetakes this one more seriously.

His sword comes down like a sledgehammer.

I swing my own sword to meet his.The shock of the impact rattles my bones all the way

down to my ankles. My teeth clack so hard I’m surprisedthey don’t fall out.

Amazingly, I’m still standing.But just barely.It’s clear I can’t take too many direct blows. Now I

know why none of my dream training involved anopponent with a sword.

Burnt expected me to go down with a single blow.He lifts his sword again, looking annoyed.

I duck and scramble under his sword arm. Probablynot a recommended move but there’s a reason why youhave to wind up for a hit. With me up close, he can cut butcan’t do a lot of impact damage.

I try to kick out his knee but he’s ready for me andspins out of the way. Unlike the other opponents I’ve beenfighting lately, Burnt is neither drunk nor an amateur.

He swings for another blow.I duck. I feel the wind of his blade along the top of

my head.I’m off balance and don’t have enough time to set

myself up for a good defensive stance.I have just enough time to raise my blade to block.He hits me again with bone-smashing force.When the impact hits, my skull rattles so much, it

feels as if it’s vibrating off my spine. I almost lose the

sword but miraculously manage to hang onto it.I stagger and fall to my knee.I vaguely register Paige screaming behind me. Paige

may have a killer bite but she’s no match for a warriorangel with a sword and I’m glad she knows it.

A part of me sees Raffe wading through blades andblows, trying to make his way to me. But there are toomany opponents ganging up on him.

Waves of fury swamp me. What I thought was ragepulsing from Raffe is actually coming from me.

No, not me.The sword.Burnt was part of the gang that cut off Raffe’s wings.

Because of that, the sword had to leave Raffe. Now, she’sstuck with me, a weakling little human. She’s had to sufferinsult upon insult since then, including being laughed at.And now, the final humiliation—Burnt’s about to beat usinto the ground with no more than two or three blows.

Boy, is she pissed.Fine. I’m pissed too. This bastard took my sister and

look what happened.We might as well go down in flames together. At

least we can vent some of our anger in a final push. I hopeI can hit him somewhere where it really hurts.

Burnt has the nerve to impatiently motion for me toget up. He’d probably never live it down if he swung hiskilling blow while his scrawny-girl opponent was down.

I wind up all that anger as I take my stance and getready.

Burnt and I both draw back our swords.With all my might, I yell and swing at the same time

he does.Paige cries my name. Raffe shouts as he shoves

warriors aside, trying to reach me.When the two swords crash, the impact neither rattles

my bones nor has me tasting blood. It’s as if all the forcestopped at the blade before it vibrated down to me. As ifall that tremendous killing power got redirected.

Burnt’s blade shatters.It sounds simultaneously like glass smashing and

someone screaming. A jagged piece hits Burnt’s wing,slicing right through it.

I keep swinging and my blade cuts through Burnt’schest.

It’s a clean stroke that leaves no mark until the bloodseeps out in a line from one arm to the other.

He crumples.Burnt lies on the trampled grass, bleeding. His eyes

are wide open in shocked disbelief. His body trembles.His breathing is ragged and strained.

He struggles to breathe.One… Two…His eyes lose focus and gaze at nothing.There’s no life in them.

I stare at him for a second longer to make sure he’sdead, reassuring myself that angel swords really can killangels.

I look up. Raffe and the others are frozen in themiddle of their fight. Everyone is staring at us.

A human girl. Killing a warrior angel. In a swordfight.

Impossible.I’m frozen too. My arms are still up, holding the

blade, poised to strike again.I glance back at the dead body of Burnt, trying to

wrap my mind around the fact that I killed an angelwarrior.

Then, another incredible thing happens.One second, we are surrounded by angels holding

their swords. The next second, one of their arms drops andhis sword thunks to the grass like a lead weight. The angelstares at his blade uncomprehendingly.

Another sword drops.Then another.Then a whole bunch, until all the other unsheathed

swords fall, thudding on the grass like subjects bowingdown to their queen.

The angels stare at the swords at their feet in uttershock.

Then everyone looks at me. Actually, it’s probablymore accurate to say they’re looking at my sword.

“Whoa.” That’s about the most intelligent thing I cansay right now. Did Raffe say something about an archangelsword intimidating other angel swords if she could gaintheir respect?

I swivel my eyes to look at the blade in my hands.Was that you, Pooky Bear?

PAIGE RUNS over to me, still holding the wings.She tentatively buries her face in my ribs again like sheused to when she had a nightmare and needed a hug.

I put my arm around her. I swear her shoulders areskinnier than they’ve ever been. But that thought leads meto all the dark places I don’t want to go so I ignore it.Judging by the wall of warriors around us, her hungerwon’t be a problem much longer.

I pull her with me as I gingerly step over to Raffe.Everyone is still in shock so no one stops me even thoughI’m now an angel killer. I stand back-to-back with Raffe,putting Paige and the severed wings between us.

I know Paige is deadly now. But that doesn’t changethe fact that she won’t survive this any better than the restof us. And if there’s one thing I know that a kid her age

shouldn’t be doing, it’s having to fight for her life whileher big sister is around.

I hope her last few moments are filled with theknowledge that she was surrounded by those who tried toprotect her.

We must be quite the sight. Raffe in his red mask withhis demon wings spread out in all their scythe-edgedglory. A scrawny teenage Daughter of Man brandishing anarchangel sword. And a little girl stitched-up to look andbehave like a nightmare who is clutching a pair of angelwings.

My hair blows all over the place, and I realize thatthe scorpion buzz has been steadily growing into a roaragain. They must have looped and are coming back ourway. It feels like a storm is building up as they near.

The warriors get over their shock and begin movingtoward us, barehanded. Only now, there are as manycoming for me as for Raffe. I guess they’ve got a thingagainst human girls killing one of their own. Either that orthey want to try to claim my sword.

I swipe my blade at an angel coming too close to me.He ducks and tries to grab my hair. I kick him in thestomach.

As far as I can tell, there’s an endless supply ofwarriors. The outcome is obvious. It won’t be long beforewe wear out.

We know it. They know it.

But we keep on fighting.I’m swiping my blade at a buffed-out warrior, trying

to catch him in the throat when something knocks himdown.

It’s a scorpion.For a moment, it’s a jumble of wings and a stinger

rolling on the trampled grass. The scorpion isn’t reallyfighting the angel. I think it’s just trying to get up and fly.But the angel isn’t going to let that happen.

Another scorpion crashes into Raffe’s opponent.They roll in the dirt, tumbling in a jumble of limbs andwings. Three more scorpions clumsily crash into angels.

It takes me a moment to figure out what’s really goingon.

The swarm above us has flown down, dipping andtwisting like a cloud of wasps. As it dips lower, thescorpions at the bottom of the swarm crash into the angels.The collisions knock down the warriors like grass beingmowed.

I have no doubt that an angel can take on a scorpionand not break out in a sweat. But there are far morescorpions than angels, and the scorpions behave likemindless beasts crashing into bodies. Even as some ofthem swerve at the last second to try to avoid fatalcollisions, they can’t seem to stop their own groupmomentum as they slam into the angels.

The sheer force of the bodies repeatedly ramming

into the crowd brings them all down flat onto the lawn.Everyone but me, Raffe, and Paige, that is.The swarm splits around us, knocking everything in

its path but leaving us untouched.The wind caused by their wings makes me stumble

backwards into Paige until she’s squeezed between Raffeand me. I reach back to hold her hand. Her little handclings tightly to me.

Raffe spreads his wings to shelter us so that he’s atour backs with his wings protecting us on either side.

Doc may have been wrong about Paige’s feelings forBeliel, but I’m becoming convinced that he was rightabout Paige having something special about her. Whateverit is that Doc secretly did to her, it gave her some kind ofconnection with the scorpions. They’re swarming aroundher and protecting her with their own bodies.

They keep coming. Some sting, some don’t, as if thescorpions are confused about what they’re supposed to do.But even the ones who sting don’t linger. It’s more of ahit-and-run as if they sense that they’d be in big trouble ifthey stayed.

The swarm lifts, leaving the lawn littered with angelson their knees and bellies. Everyone stares up at the sky tosee what’s next. We’re the only ones still on our feet.

The swarm twists and turns around to make anotherpass. The angels who are on their knees dive down ontheir stomachs, and everyone covers their heads.

Maybe if they could use their swords, the dynamicswould change. But no one seems to want to risk havingtheir sword refuse them even if it’s just for one battle.

I look around to try to see what we should do. Sincethey haven’t aimed for us, ducking for cover doesn’t makea lot of sense.

The swarm keeps coming. A huge gust of wind makesmy eyes sting and almost knocks me off my feet.

But they split around us as before, letting us stayupright while everyone else flattens on the ground.

Still holding the folded wings, Paige slips out frombetween us and lies on top of Beliel. The wings aresandwiched between them with the downy feathersfluttering in the wind.

Beliel has shrunken and is almost unrecognizablelying like the dead on his stomach. The wings covering hisback, though, look contrastingly full of life as they droopover him like a white blanket.

A scorpion hovers over Paige, trying to lift her butshe won’t let go of Beliel.

My skin turns cold at the sight of that curved tail withthe stinger so close to my sister. I’m tempted to slice it off.But Raffe puts out his hand to stop me as if he knows whatI want to do.

“Put her away,” he whispers as he nods to my sword.I hesitate, thinking of all the reasons why I should

keep my blade out. But I wipe the blood on my pants and

slide the sword back into the scabbard at my hip. This isnot the time to argue.

More scorpions slow down and hover over Paige.Four of them grab Beliel around the armpits and legswhile two others pull on his belt. They lift him with Paigeclinging on top like a princess on a demon palanquin.

I reach for her, wanting to pull her off.Raffe grabs my hand and begins running after them as

the last of the swarm passes by. He swings me up andpulls me into his arms.

I hold him as tightly as my trembling muscles will letme.

A few steps of running and we’re leaping over thecliff into the air.

ANGELS IMMEDIATELY pop up from theirprone positions and begin chasing us. Some look stung andsluggish but too many of them manage to shake it off.Raffe’s wings sweep powerfully as we fly above thecrashing waves.

Behind us, a horde of angels takes off from the cliff.The thunderous sound of the scorpion wings gets

louder as the swarm twists and doubles back. Thescorpions fly so close to us that their insect wings almostbrush my head as they dive toward the angels.

My eyes squint against the rush of insectile bodies.Watching over Raffe’s shoulder, my field of visionnarrows and widens rhythmically as Raffe beats hiswings.

The swarm dips down, colliding with the angels just

behind us.The titanic clash knocks out the angels and all I can

see are stingers and insect wings. No angel can penetratethe mass. I imagine this isn’t exactly what Uriel had inmind when he created the scorpions.

The scorpions dive and double back toward uswithout a single angel in sight.

We are in the swarm.Bodies fly above, ahead, and below us. Behind us,

the mass of stingers and wings is so dense that it’s a wallof giant insects.

We look around nervously until enough time goes bythat we stop worrying about whether they’re going toattack us.

Beside me, my little sister rides on what’s left ofBeliel. Her legs wrap around his waist and she pressesRaffe’s severed wings onto him with her body. The tips ofthe snowy wings hang off him, fluttering in the wind.

Beliel is a gruesome picture with his head hangingdown. Chunks of him are missing and he’s still bleeding.His skin and muscles are shriveled and sucked dry,making him look frail and long dead.

They’re carried by six scorpion monsters flutteringtheir iridescent wings, and they are a freakishly bizarresight. Paige turns to me and gives me a shy smile that stopswhen the crisscross stitches on her cheeks move too much.

My dad once told me life would get complicated

when I grew up. I’m guessing this isn’t what he meant. Mymom, on the other hand, agreed with him, and I’m guessingthis kind of thing is exactly what she meant.

I curl up in Raffe’s arms. Our flight is in sync withthe swarm, as if his instincts are perfectly honed tosynchronize with his flight mates. It’s clear that he wasmeant to be an integral part of something larger thanhimself.

Raffe is warm and strong and he feels like home. Ourfaces inch closer as the swarm shifts. For a moment, I canfeel his breath feathering my cheek.

We’ll fly wherever the swarm takes us, and we’llland wherever they do. And when we arrive, I have nodoubt that I’ll have to be fully alert and ready for anything.Until then, I can bask in the knowledge that my family issafe for the moment and I’m with Raffe again.

The sun is rising, giving the dark ocean below a glowthat shimmers with blue, gold, and green.

It’s a new day in the World After.

MUCH THANKS to my fabulous beta readers whohelped take the book to the next level: Nyla Adams, AaronEmigh, Jessica Lynch Alfaro, John Turner, Adrian Khactu,Eric Shible, and David L. M. Preston. Additional thanksgoes out to Aaron Emigh for being my fight advisor, andSteaphen Fick for the sword fighting lesson and knifefighting tips. And of course, a huge thanks goes out to thereaders of Angelfall for their wild enthusiasm and support.

SUSAN EE has eaten mezze in the old city ofJerusalem, surfed the warm waters of Costa Rica, andplayed her short film at a major festival. She has a life-long love of science fiction, fantasy and horror, especiallyif there’s a touch of romance. She used to be a lawyer butloves being a writer because it allows her souped-upimagination to bust out and go feral.